James  Whitcomb  Riley 

.  1  •; '  i  ■  ' ;  i  *  * . ; » i      *  -  \  ■  ■  • 

-.       .  :  s  •    :  s  I    . . '  « i  ■  {  .j .  '  : 

Eugene;  Field 

Bill  Nye 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 

Hamlin  Garland 

Mary  Hartwell  — 
' —  Gather  wood 

Will  Carleton 

M'^(^AE)5hti 
Opie  Read.;'  -v 


I  LLUSTR A  TED  THROUGHOUT 


1 

Digitized  by 

the  Internet  Archive 

in  2015 

https://archive.org/details/authorsreadingsOOyoun_0 


AUTHORS'  READINGS 


AUTHORS'  READINGS 


Compiled  and  illustrated  throughout 
with  pen  and  ink  drawings 


BY 


RECITATIONS  FROM  THEIR  OWN  WORKS 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 
MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 
ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 
HAMLIN  GARLAND 

AND  OPIE  READ 


BILL  NYE 
EUGENE  FIELD 
WILL  CARLETON 
M  QUAD 


With  a  biography  of  each  author 
Second  Edition. 

NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1897,  by 
ARTHUR  H.  YOUNG. 

All  rights  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATOR'S  NOTE. 


To  the  person  now  holding  this  book: 


The  sketches  in  this  volume  showing 
characteristic  attitudes  of  the  authors  rep- 
resented are  the  illustrator's  individual  im- 
pressions from  life.  They  were  made  by 
him  from  pencil  sketches  drawn  while  ob- 
serving the  authors  read  or  recite,  or  from 
his  recollection  of  the  various  poses  assumed. 
Some  of  the  original  sketches  in  lead  pencil 
were  made  at  public  readings.  Others  were 
made  in  private. 

With  sixteen  well-known  American  writers 
this  plan  has  been  pursued.    They  are  the 


iv 


illustrator's  note. 


following  : — General  Lew  Wallace,  James 
Whitcomb  Riley,  Captain  Charles  King, 
Joaquin  Miller,  Octave  Thanet,  C.  B.  Lewis, 
("M.  Quad"),  Edgar  Wilson  Nye,  Eugene 
Field,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  John  Vance 
Cheney,  Lillian  Bell,  Mary  Hartwell  Cath- 
erwood,  Opie  Read,  Will  Carleton,  Hamlin 
Garland  anr  Robert  Burdette. 

In  addition  to  the  many  characteristic 
poses,  a  large  portrait  sketch  from  life, 
signed  by  each  author,  was  made.  When 
the  question  of  putting  these  pictorial  ob- 
servations into  book  form  arose  it  was  found 
that  there  was  ample  material  for  two  books. 
Under  these  circumstances  those  authors 
were  chosen  for  the  present  work  whose  at- 
titudes were  entirely  completed  and  whose 
literary  work  had  already  been  selected  and 
illustrated. 

The  nine  authors  represented  in  this 
book  have  not  ever  appeared  together  in 
one  entertainment  prior  to  the  one  which  is 
now  offered  to  the  reader  by  this  volume 
itself. 

Moreover,  some  of  them  have  never  (be- 
fore) appeared  in  public  readings,  while 


ILLUSTRATOR  S  NOTE. 


V 


others  were  associated  together  on  the  plat- 
form for  many  years. 

The  late  Eugene  Field  and  Edgar  Wilson 
Nye  gave  the  illustrator  much  encourage- 
ment and  left  him  greatly  indebted  to  them. 

Toward  the  other  authors  he  feels  under 
great  obligation  for  much  courtesy,  while  to 
the  various  publishers  controlling  the  works 
of  the  different  authors,  grateful  acknowl- 
edgment is  made.  Full  credit  is  given  in 
each  case  in  the  biographical  part  of  this 
work. 


J>      Frontispiece  page 
%.       We  cross  the  pasture,  and  through 
%  the  wood    ....  7 

Then,  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contented 

with  our  lot        ....  8 

He  trudged  away  up  the  road  in  a 

pleasant  glow  of  hope  .        .  .29 
A  lazy  June  day       .        .       .  -37 
I  knew  the  wood — the  very  tree — where 

lived  the  poaching ,  saucy  crow      .  49 
I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an1  saw  things 

standiri  in  a  row        .       .  -55 
A  backwoods  Sunday  .        .        .  '97 
The  meet   ......  lop 

Under  the  soporific  influences  of  an  un- 
derpaid preacher  ....  117 

He  was  asleep  120 


Viii  FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

Drawing  of  Eugene  Field  .       .       .  141 
Drawing  of  Will  Carleton  .       .       .  151 
Drawing  of  Mary  Hartweli  Cather- 

wood  ......  ijp 

Drawing  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley      .  163 
Drawing  of  Opie  Pope  Read      .       .  177 
Drawing  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox       .  iSj 
Drawing  of  C.  B.  Lewis    .       .       .  191 
Drawing  of  Bill  Nye  ....  ipp 

Drawing  of  Hamlin  Garland     .       .  209 


PROGRAM 


Page 

Thoughts  fer  the  Discuraged  Farmer    .  j 

Old  Aunt  Mary's  p 

A  Life  Lesson    .        .        .        .        .  ij 

JAMES  WH1TCOMB  RILEY 

Uncle  Ethan  Ripley    .        .        .        .  if 
HAMLIN  GARLAND 

Long  Ago   4f 

Little  Boy  Blue  .  .  .  .  .  51 
Seem'  Things    .        .        .       .  -S3 

EUGENE  FIELD 

The  Little  Renault    .        .        .        >  59 
MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

The  Last  of  His  Race       .        .        .  71 

The  Boys  Around  the  House      .        .  7/ 

"  M.  QUAD  " 


X 


PROGRAM 


Page 

Which  are  you  ?              .       .  .  83 

Solitude    .       .       .        .       .  .  85 

The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod       .  .  8/ 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 

A  Backwoods  Sunday        .        .  .  pi 
OPIE  READ 


How  to  Hunt  the  Fox 
A  Blasted  Snore 


Page 

Eugene  Field  .  .143 
Will  Car  let  on  .  .  13 j 
M try  Hartwell 

Catheriuood  .  .  161 
Jumrs  Whitcomb 

Riley    ....  167 


■  103 


•  125 
.  129 


Page 

Opie  Read   .    .    .  ijq 
Ella  Wheeler  Wil- 
cox  185 

C.  B.  Lewis  .  .  igj 
Bill  Nye  .  ...  201 
Hamlin  Garland  .  211 


BILL  NYE 

The  Chrisimas  Baby  . 

The  Lightning-rod  Dispenser 

WILL  CARLETON 

BIOGRAPHIES 


THOUGHTS  FER  THE  DISCURAGED 
FARMER 


BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  summer  wind  is  sniffin'  'round  the 

bloomin'  locus'  trees  ; 
And  the  clover  in  the  pastur'  is  a  big  day 

fer  the  bees, 
And  they  been   a-swiggin   honey,  above 

board  and  on  the  sly, 


Tel  they  stutter  in  theyr  buzzin'  and  stag-  ' 

ger  as  they  fly.  The  summer  wind  is 

The  flicker  on  the  fence-rail  'pears  to  jest  sniffin\" 
spit  on  his  wings 

And  roll  up  his  feathers,  by  the  sassy  way 
he  sings ; 

And  the  hoss-fly  is  a-whettin'-up  his  forelegs 
fer  biz, 

And  the  off-mare  is  a-switchin'  all  of  her 
tale  they  is. 


4  authors'  readings 

You  can  hear  the  blackbirds  javvin'  as  they 

toiler  up  the  plow — 
Oh,  theyr  bound  to  git  theyr  brekfast,  and 

theyr  not  a-carin'  how  ; 
So  they  quarrel  in  the  furries,  and  they 

quarrel  on  the  wing — 
But  theyr  peaceabler  in  pot-pies  than  any 

other  thing ; 
And  it's  when  I  git  my  shot-gun  drawed  up 

in  stiddy  rest, 
She's  as  full  of  tribbelation  as  a  )eller- 

jacket's  nest ; 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  the 

sun's  a-shinin'  right, 
Seems  to  kindo-sorto  sharpen  up  a  feller's 

appetite  ! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'  rain,  but  the  sun's 
out  to-day, 

And  the  clouds  of  the  wet  spell  is  all 

cleared  away, 
And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the 

grass  is  greener  still ; 
It  may  rain  again  to-morry,  but  I  don't 

think  it  will. 


THOUGHTS  FER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER  5 


Some  says  the  crops  is  ruined,  and  the 

corn's  drovvnded  out, 
And  propha-sy  the  wheat  will  be  a  failure, 

without  doubt ; 
But  the  kind  Providence  that  has  never 

failed  us  yet, 
Will  be  on  hands  onc't  more  at  the  'leventh 

hour,  I  bet ! 


Does  the  medder-lark  com  plane,  as  he  swims 

high  and  dry 
Through  the  waves  of  the  wind  and  the  blue 

of  the  sky? 
Does  the  quail  set  up  and  whissel  in  a  dissa- 

pinted  way, 
Er  hang  his  head  in  silunce,  and  sorrow  all 

the  day  ? 

Is  the  chipmunck's  health  a-failin'  ?  Does 
he  walk  er  does  he  run  ? 

Don't  the  buzzards  ooze  around  up  thare 
jest  like  they've  alius  done? 

Is  they  anything  the  matter  with  the  roost- 
er's lungs  er  voice — 

Ort  a  mortal  be  complainin'  when  dumb 
animals  rejoice? 


Er  hang  his  head  in 
silunce." 


6  authors'  readings 

Then,  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contented  with 
our  lot ; 

The  June  is  here  this  morning,  and  the  sun 

is  shining  hot. 
Oh  !  let  us  fill  our  hearts  up  with  the  glory 

of  the  day, 

And  banish  ev'ry  doubt  and  care  and  sorrow 
fur  away  ! 

Whatever  be  our  station,  with  Providence 
fer  guide, 

Sich  fine  circumstances  ort  to  make  us  satis- 
fied ; 

Fer  the  world  is  full  of  roses,  and  the  roses 
full  of  dew, 

And  the  dew  is  full  of  heavenly  love  that 
drips  fer  me  and  you. 


'  We  cross  the  pasture,  and  through  the  wood." 


"  Then,  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contented  with  our  lot. 


OLD  AUNT  MARY'S 

BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Wasn't  it  pleasant,  O  brother  mine, 
In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 
Of  youth — when  the  Saturday's  chores  were 
through, 

And  the  "  Sunday's  wood  "  in  the  kitchen, 
too, 

And  we  went  visiting,  "  me  and  you," 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's  ? 

It  all  comes  back  so  clear  to-day  ! 
Though  I  am  as  bald  as  you  are  gray — 
Out  by  the  barn-lot,  and  down  the  lane, 
We  patter  along  in  the  dust  again,  «« Me  ana 'you.' 

As  light  as  the  tips  of  the  drops  of  the  rain, 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

We  cross  the  pasture,  and  through  the  wood 
Where  the  old  gray  snag  of  the  poplar  stood, 


IO 


authors'  readings 


Where  the  hammering  "  red-heads  "  hopped 
awry, 

And  the  buzzard  "raised"  in  the  "clear- 
ing "  sky, 
And  lolled  and  circled,  as  we  went  by 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  then  in  the  dust  of  the  road  again ; 
And  the  teams  we  met,  and  the  countrymen  ; 
And  the  long  highway,  with  sunshine  spread 
As  thick  as  butter  on  country  bread, 
Our  cares  behind,  and  our  hearts  ahead 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

Why,  I  see  her  now  in  the  open  door, 
Where  the  little  gourds  grew  up  the  sides, 
and  o'er 

The  clapboard  roof  ! — And  her  face — ah, 
me ! 

Wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  see — 
And  wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  be 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  O  my  brother,  so  far  away, 
This  is  to  tell  you  she  waits  to-day 


old  aunt  mary's  ii 

To  welcome  us — Aunt  Mary  fell 
Asleep  this  morning,  whispering,  "  Tell 
The  boys  to  come  !  ' '    And  all  is  well 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 


A  LIFE-LESSON 


BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  ! 

They  have  broken  your  doll,  I  know  ; 
And  your  tea-set  blue, 
And  your  play-house,  too, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago  ; 

But  childish  troubles  will  soon  pass  by 
There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  ! 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  ! 

They  have  broken  your  slate,  I  know ; 
And  the  glad,  wild  ways 
Of  your  school-girl  days 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago  ; 

But  life  and  love  will  soon  come  by. 
There!  little  girl ;  don't  cry! 

There  !  little  girl  ;  don't  cry  ! 

They  have  broken  your  heart,  I  know  3 
And  the  rainbow  gleams 
Of  your  youthful  dreams 


14 


authors'  readings 


Are  things  of  the  long  ago  ; 

But  heaven  holds  all  for  which 
sigh. 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  ! 


HAMLIN  GARLAND 


'  The  tired  ponies  slept  in  the  shade  of  the  lombardies." 


/  will  read  "Uncle  Ethan  Ripley"  the  story  of  a 
kindly  old  farmer  who  was  imposed  upon  by  a  patent 
medicine  man. 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


BY  HAMLIN  GARLAND 


Uncle  Ethan  had  a  theory  that  a  man's 
character  could  be  told  by  the  way  he  sat  in 
a  wagon-seat. 

"  A  mean  man  sets  right  plumb  in  the 
middle  o'  the  seat,  as  much  as  to  say, 
'  Walk,  gol  darn  yeh,  who  cares  ?  '  But  a 
man  that  sets  in  one  corner  o'  the  seat, 
much  as  to  say,  '  Jump  in — cheaper  t'  ride 
'n  to  walk,'  you  can  jest  tie  to." 

Uncle  Ripley  was  prejudiced  in  favor  of 
the  stranger,  therefore,  before  he  came  op- 
posite the  potato  patch,  where  the  old  man 
was  "bugging  his  vines."  The  stranger 
drove  a  jaded-looking  pair  of  calico  ponies, 
hitched  to  a  clattering  democrat  wagon,  and 
he  sat  on  the  extreme  end  of  the  seat,  with 
the  lines  in  his  right  hand,  while  his  left 
rested  on  his  thigh,  with  his  little  finger 


Jump  it 


iS 


authors'  readings 


TP 
\1 


gracefully  crooked  and  his  elbows  akimbo. 
He  wore  a  blue  shirt,  with  gay-colored  arm- 
lets just  above  the  elbows,  and  his  vest  hung 
unbuttoned  down  his  lank  ribs.  It  was  plain 
he  was  well  pleased  with  himself. 

As  he  pulled  up  and  threw  one  leg  over 
the  end  of  the  seat,  Uncle  Ethan  observed 
that  the  left  spring  was  much  more  worn 
than  the  other,  which  proved  that  it  was  not 
accidental,  but  that  it  wTas  the  driver's  habit 
to  sit  on  that  end  of  the  seat. 

' '  Good  -afternoon,"  said  the  stranger, 
pleasantly. 

"  Good -afternoon,  sir." 

"  Bugs  purty  plenty  ?  " 

"  Plenty  enough,  I  gol  !  I  don't  see 
where  they  all  come  mm." 

"  Early  Rose?"  inquired  the  man,  as  if 
referring  to  the  bugs. 

"No;  Peachblows  an'  Carter  Reds.  My 
Early  Rose  is  over  near  the  house.  The  old 
woman  wants  'em  near.  See  the  darned 
things  !  "  he  pursued,  rapping  savagely  on 
the  edge  of  the  pan  to  rattle  the  bugs  back. 

"  How  do  yeh  kill  'em — scald  'em  ?  " 

"  Mostly.    Sometimes  I  " 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


19 


*'  Good  piece  of  oats,"  yawned  the 
stranger,  listlessly. 

"  That's  barley." 

"  So  'tis.    Didn't  notice." 

Uncle  Ethan  was  wondering  what  the 
man  was.  He  had  some  pots  of  black  paint 
in  the  wagon,  and  two  or  three  square 
boxes. 

"  What  do  yeh  think  o'  Cleveland's 
chances  for  a  third  term?"  continued  the 
man,  as  if  they  had  been  talking  politics  all 
the  while. 

Uncle  Ripley  scratched  his  head. 
"  Waal — I  dunno — bein'  a  Republican — I 
think  " 

"  That's  so — it's  a  purty  scaly  outlook — 
I  don't  believe  in  third  terms  myself,"  the 
man  hastened  to  say. 

' '  Is  that  your  new  barn  acrost  there  ?  ' ' 
pointing  with  his  whip. 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  replied  the  old  man, 
proudly.  After  years  of  planning  and  hard 
work  he  had  managed  to  erect  a  little  wooden 
barn,  costing  possibly  three  hundred  dollars. 
It  was  plain  to  be  seen  he  took  a  childish 
pride  in  the  fact  of  its  newness. 


20 


authors'  readings 


The  stranger  mused.  "  A  lovely  place 
for  a  sign,"  he  said,  as  his  eyes  wandered 
across  its  shining  yellow  broadside. 

Uncle  Ethan  stared,  unmindful  of  the 
bugs  crawling  over  the  edge  of  his  pan.  His 
interest  in  the  pots  of  paint  deepened. 

"  Couldn't  think  o'  lettin'  me  paint  a 
sign  on  that  barn?  "  the  stranger  continued, 
putting  his  locked  hands  around  one  knee, 
and  gazing  away  across  the  pig-pen  at  the 
building. 

"  What  kind  of  a  sign?  Gol  darn  your 
skins  !  ' '  Uncle  Ethan  pounded  the  pan 
with  his  paddle  and  scraped  two  or  three 
crawling  abominations  off  his  leathery  wrist. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  the  man  in  the 
wagon  seemed  unusually  loath  to  attend  to 
business.  The  tired  ponies  slept  in  the  shade 
of  the  lombardies.  The  plain  was  draped  in 
a  warm  mist,  and  shadowed  by  vast,  vaguely 
denned  masses  of  clouds — a  lazy  June  day. 

"  Dodd's  Family  Bitters,"  said  the  man, 
waking  out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  start, 
and  resuming  his  working  manner.  "  The 
best  bitter  in  the  market."  He  alluded  to 
it  in  the  singular.    "  Like  to  look  at  it? 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY  21 

No  trouble  to  show  goods,  as  the  fellah  says," 
he  went  on  hastily,  seeing  Uncle  Ethan's 
hesitation. 

He  produced  a  large  bottle  of  triangular 
shape,  like  a  bottle  for  pickled  onions.  It 
had  a  red  seal  on  top,  and  a  strenuous  cau- 
tion in  red  letters  on  the  neck,  "  None  genu- 
ine unless  '  Dodd's  Family  Bitters  '  is  blown 
in  the  bottom." 

"  Here's  what  it  cures,"  pursued  the 
agent,  pointing  at  the  side,  where,  in  an  in- 
verted pyramid,  the  names  of  several  hun- 
dred diseases  were  arranged,  running  from 
"gout  "  to  "pulmonary  complaints,"  etc. 

"I  gol  !  she  cuts  a  wide  swath,  don't 
she?"  exclaimed  Uncle  Ethan,  profoundly 
impressed  with  the  list. 

"They  ain't  no  better  bitter  in  the 
world,"  said  the  agent,  with  a  conclusive 
inflection. 

"What's  its  speshy-tf/ity  ?  Most  of 'em 
have  some  speshy-^/ity." 

"  Well — summer  complaints — an' — an' — 
spring  an'  fall  troubles — tones  ye  up,  sort  of." 

Uncle  Ethan's  forgotten  pan  was  empty 
of  his  gathered  bugs.    He  was  deeply  inter- 


authors'  readings 


ested  in  this  man.  There  was  something  he 
liked  about  him. 

"  What  does  it  sell  fur?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Same  price  as  them  cheap  medicines — 
dollar  a  bottle — big  bottles,  too.  Want 
one?" 

"  Wal,  mother  ain't  to  home,  an'  I  don't 
know  as  she'd  like  this  kind.  We  ain't 
been  sick  f'r  years.  Still,  they  ^  no  tellin'," 
he  added,  seeing  the  answer  to  his  objection 
in  the  agent's  eyes.  "  Times  is  purty  close, 
too,  with  us,  y'  see;  we've  jest  built  that 
stable  " 

"Say,  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I'll  do,"  said 
the  stranger,  waking  up  and  speaking  in  a 
warmly  generous  tone.  "  I'll  give  you  ten 
bottles  of  the  bitter  if  you'll  let  me  paint  a 
sign  on  that  barn.  It  won't  hurt  the  barn 
a  bit,  and  if  you  want  'o,  you  can  paint  it 
out  a  year  from  date.  Come,  what  d'  ye 
say  ?  ' ' 

"I  guess  I  hadn't  better." 

The  agent  thought  that  Uncle  Ethan  was 
after  more  pay,  but  in  reality  he  was  think- 
ing of  what  his  little  old  wife  would  say. 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


23 


"  It  simply  puts  a  family  bitter  in  your 
home  that  may  save  you  fifty  dollars  this 
comin'  fall.    You  can't  tell." 

Just  what  the  man  said  after  that  Uncle 
Ethan  didn't  follow.  His  voice  had  a  con- 
fidential purring  sound  as  he  stretched  across 
the  wagon-seat  and  talked  on,  eyes  half  shut. 
He  straightened  up  at  last,  and  concluded, 
in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  carried  his  point : 

"So!  If  you  didn't  want  to  use  the 
whole  twenty-five  bottles  y'rself,  why  !  sell 
it  to  your  neighbors.  You  can  get  twenty 
dollars  out  of  it  easy,  and  still  have  five  bot- 
tles of  the  best  family  bitter  that  ever  went 
into  a  bottle." 

It  was  the  thought  of  this  opportunity  to 
get  a  buffalo-skin  coat  that  consoled  Uncle 
Ethan  as  he  saw  the  hideous  black  letters  ap- 
pearing under  the  agent's  lazy  brush. 

It  was  the  hot  side  of  the  barn,  and  paint- 
ing was  no  light  work.  The  agent  was 
forced  to  mop  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve. 

"Say,  hain't  got  a  cooky  or  anything, 
and  a  cup  o'  milk  handy?"  he  said  at  the 
end  of  the  first  enormous  word,  which  ran 
the  whole  length  of  the  barn. 


24 


AUTHORS  READINGS 


Uncle  Ethan  got  him  the  milk  and  cooky, 
which  he  ate  with  an  exaggeratedly  dainty 
action  of  his  ringers,  seated  meanwhile  on 
the  staging  which  Uncle  Ripley  had  helped 
him  to  build.  This  lunch  infused  new  en- 
ergy into  him,  and  in  a  short  time  "Dodd's 
Family  Bitters,  Best  in  the  Market,"  dis- 
figured the  sweet-smelling  pine-boards. 

Ethan  was  eating  his  self-obtained  supper 
of  bread  and  milk  when  his  wife  came  home. 

"  Who's  been  a-paintin'  on  that  barn  ?  " 
she  demanded,  her  bead-like  eyes  flash- 
ing, her  withered  little  face  set  in  an  omi- 
nous frown.  Ethan  Ripley,  what  you  been 
doin'  ?  " 

"  Nawthin',"  he  replied,  feebly. 

"  Who  painted  that  sign  on  there  ?  " 

"A  man  come  along  an'  he  wanted  to 
paint  that  on  there,  and  I  let  'im  ;  and  it's 
my  barn,  anyway.  I  guess  I  can  do  what 
I'm  a  min'  to  with  it,"  he  ended,  defiantly; 
but  his  eyes  wavered. 

Mrs.  Ripley  ignored  the  defiance.  "  What 
under  the  sun  p'sessed  you  to  do  such  a 
thing  as  that,  Ethan  Ripley?    I  declare  I 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


25 


don't  see!  You  git  fooler  an'  fooler  ev'ry 
day  you  live,  I  do  believe." 

Uncle  Ethan  attempted  a  defence. 

"  Well,  he  paid  me  twenty-five  dollars  f  r 
it,  anyway." 

"  Did  'e?  "  She  was  visibly  affected  by 
this  news. 

"Well,  anyhow,  it  amounts  to  that ;  he 
give  me  twenty-five  bottles  " 

Mrs.  Ripley  sank  back  in  her  chair. 
"  Well,  I  swan  to  Bungay !  Ethan  Ripley — 
wal,  you  beat  all  I  ever  see  !  "  she  added  in 
despair  of  expression.  "  I  thought  you  had 
some  sense  left,  but  you  hain't,  not  one 
blessed  scimpton.    Where  is  the  stuff?  " 

"  Down  cellar,  an'  you  needn't  take  on 
no  airs,  ol'  woman.  I've  known  you  to  buy 
things  you  didn't  need  time  an'  time  'n' 
agin,  tins  and  things,  an'  I  guess  you  wish 
you  had  back  that  ten  dollars  you  paid  for 
that  illustrated  Bible." 

"  Go  'long  an'  bring  that  stuff  up  here. 
I  never  see  such  a  man  in  my  life.  It's  a 
wonder  he  didn't  do  it  fr  two  bottles." 
She  glared  out  at  the  sign,  which  faced  di- 
rectly upon  the  kitchen  window. 


Til 


/  do  believe. 


26 


authors'  readings 


Uncle  Ethan  tugged  the  two  cases  up  and 
set  them  down  on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Ripley  opened  a  bottle  and  smelled  of 
it  like  a  cautious  cat. 

"Ugh!  Merciful  sakes,  what  stuff!  It 
ain't  fit  f  r  a  hog  to  take.  What'd  you 
think  you  was  goin'  to  do  with  it?"  she 
asked,  in  poignant  disgust. 

"  I  expected  to  take  it — if  I  was  sick. 
Whaddy  ye  s'pose?"  He  defiantly  stood 
his  ground,  towering  above  her  like  a  lean- 
ing tower. 

"  The  hull  cartload  of  it?" 

"  No.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  part  of  it  an'  git 
me  an  overcoat  ' ' 

"Sell  it!  "  she  shouted.  "  Nobuddy'll 
buy  that  sick'nin'  stuff  but  an  old  numbskull 
like  you.  Take  that  slop  out  o'  the  house 
this  minute  !  Take  it  right  down  to  the 
sink-hole  an'  smash  every  bottle  on  the 
stones. ' ' 

Uncle  Ethan  and  the  cases  of  medicine 
disappeared,  and  the  old  woman  addressed 
her  concluding  remarks  to  little  Tewksbury, 
her  grandson,  who  stood  timidly  on  one  leg 
in  the  doorway,  like  an  intruding  pullet. 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


27 


"  Everything  around  this  place  'ud  go  to 
rack  an'  ruin  if  I  didn't  keep  a  watch  on 
that  soft-pated  old  dummy.  I  thought  that 
lightenin'-rod  man  had  give  him  a  lesson 
he'd  remember,  but  no,  he  must  go  an' 
make  a  reg'lar  " 

She  subsided  in  a  tumult  of  banging  pans, 
which  helped  her  out  in  the  matter  of  ex- 
pression and  reduced  her  to  a  grim  sort  of 
quiet.  Uncle  Ethan  went  about  the  house 
like  a  convict  on  shipboard.  Once  she 
caught  him  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  feel  proud  o'  that." 

Uncle  Ethan  had  never  been  sick  a  day 
in  his  life.  He  was  bent  and  bruised  with 
never-ending  toil,  but  he  had  nothing  es- 
pecial the  matter  with  him. 

He  did  not  smash  the  medicine,  as  Mrs. 
Ripley  commanded,  because  he  had  deter- 
mined to  sell  it.  The  next  Sunday  morn- 
ing, after  his  chores  were  done,  he  put  on 
his  best  coat  of  faded  diagonal,  and  was 
brushing  his  hair  into  a  ridge  across  the  cen- 
tre of  his  high,  narrow  head,  when  Mrs. 
Ripley  came  in  from  feeding  the  calves. 

"  Where  you  goin'  now  ?  " 


28 


authors'  readings 


"None  o'  your  business,"  he  replied. 
"  It's  darn  funny  if  I  can't  stir  without  you 
wantin'  to  know  all  about  it.  Where's 
Tewky?" 

"  Feedin'  the  chickens.  You  ain't  gom' 
to  take  him  off  this  mornin'  now  !  I  don't 
care  where  you  go." 

"  Who's a-goin'  to  take  him  off?  I  ain't 
said  nothin'  about  takin'  him  off." 

"  Wal,  take  y'rself  off,  an'  if  y'  ain't 
here  f'r  dinner,  I  ain't  goin'  to  get  no  sup- 
per." 

Ripley  took  a  water-pail  and  put  four  bot- 
tles of  "  the  bitter"  into  it,  and  trudged 
away  up  the  road  with  it  in  a  pleasant  glow 
of  hope.  All  nature  seemed  to  declare  the 
day  a  time  of  rest,  and  invited  men  to  dis- 
associate ideas  of  toil  from  the  rustling  green 
wheat,  shining  grass,  and  tossing  blooms. 
Something  of  the  sweetness  and  buoyancy  of 
all  nature  permeated  the  old  man's  work- 
calloused  body,  and  he  whistled  little 
snatches  of  the  dance  tunes  he  played  on  his 
fiddle. 

But  he  found  neighbor  Johnson  to  be  sup- 
plied with  another  variety  of  bitter,  which 


3° 


authors'  readings 


was  all  he  needed  for  the  present.  He  quali- 
fied his  refusal  to  buy  with  a  cordial  invita- 
tion to  go  out  and  see  his  shotes,  in  which 
he  took  infinite  pride.  But  Uncle  Ripley 
said  :  "I  guess  I'll  haf  t'  be  goin'  ;  I  want 
'o  git  up  to  Jennings'  before  dinner." 

He  couldn't  help  feeling  a  little  depressed 
when  he  found  Jennings  away.  The  next 
house  along  the  pleasant  lane  was  inhabited 
by  a  "  new-comer."  He  was  sitting  on  the 
horse-trough,  holding  a  horse's  halter,  while 
his  hired  man  dashed  cold  water  upon  the 
galled  spot  on  the  animal's  shoulder. 

After  some  preliminary  talk  Ripley  pre- 
sented his  medicine. 

"Hell,  no!  What  do  I  want  of  such 
stuff?  When  they's  anything  the  matter 
with  me,  I  take  a  lunkin'  ol'  swig  of  popple- 
bark  and  bourbon  ?    That  fixes  me. ' ' 

Uncle  Ethan  moved  off  up  the  lane.  He 
hardly  felt  like  whistling  now.  At  the  next 
house  he  set  his  pail  down  in  the  weeds  be- 
side the  fence,  and  went  in  without  it. 
Doudney  came  to  the  door  in  his  bare  feet, 
buttoning  his  suspenders  over  a  clean  boiled 
shirt.    He  was  dressing  to  go  out. 


UNCLE   ETKAN  RIPLEY 


31 


"  Plello,  Ripley.  I  was  just  goin'  down 
your  way.  Jest  wait  a  minute  an'  I'll  be 
out." 

When  he  came  out  fully  dressed  Uncle 
Ethan  grappled  him. 

"Say,  what  d'  you  think  o'  paytent 
med  " 

"  Some  of  'em  are  boss.  But  y'  want  'o 
know  what  y're  gitt'n." 

"  What  d'  ye  think  o'  Dodd's  " 

"  Best  in  the  market." 

Uncle  Ethan  straightened  up  and  his  face 
lighted.    Doudney  went  on  : 

"  Yes,  sir ;  best  bitter  that  ever  went  into 
a  bottle.  I  know,  I've  tried  it.  I  don't  go 
much  on  patent  medicines,  but  when  I  get  a 
good  ' ' 

"  Don't  want  'o  buy  a  bottle  ?  " 

Doudney  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Buy!  No.  I've  got  nineteen  bottles 
I  want  'o  se/f."  Ripley  glanced  up  at 
Doudney's  new  granary  and  there  read 
"  Dodd's  Family  Bitters."  He  was  stricken 
dumb.    Doudney  saw  it  all  and  roared. 

"  Wal,  that's  a  good  one  !  We  two  try- 
in'  to  sell  each  other  bitters.    Ho — ho — ho 


What  (V  ye  think  o 
Dodd's  " 


32 


authors'  readings 


— har,  whoop !  wal,  this  is  rich  !  How 
many  bottles  did  you  git?  " 

"  None  o'  your  business,"  said  Uncle 
Ethan,  as  he  turned  and  made  off,  while 
Doudney  screamed  with  merriment. 

On  his  way  home  Uncle  Ethan  grew 
ashamed  of  his  burden.  Doudney  had  can- 
vassed the  whole  neighborhood,  and  he  prac- 
tically gave  up  the  struggle.  Everybody  he 
met  seemed  determined  to  find  out  what  he 
had  been  doing,  and  at  last  he  began  lying 
about  it. 

"  Hello,  Uncle  Ripley,  what  y'  got  there 
in  that  pail  ?  " 

"  Goose  eggs  f  r  settin'." 

He  disposed  of  one  bottle  to  old  Gus 
Peterson.  Gus  never  paid  his  debts,  and  he 
would  only  promise  fifty  cents  "on  tick" 
for  the  bottle,  and  yet  so  desperate  was  Rip- 
ley that  this  quasi  sale  cheered  him  up  not 
a  little. 

As  he  came  down  the  road,  tired,  dusty 
and  hungry,  he  climbed  over  the  fence  in 
order  to  avoid  seeing  that  sign  on  the  barn, 
and  slunk  into  the  house  without  looking 
back. 


UNCLE   ETHAN  RIPLEY 


33 


Pie  couldn't  have  felt  meaner  about  it  if 
he  had  allowed  a  Democratic  poster  to  be 
pasted  there. 

The  evening  passed  in  grim  silence,  and 
in  sleep  he  saw  that  sign  wriggling  across  the 
side  of  the  barn  like  boa-constrictors  hung 
on  rails.  He  tried  to  paint  them  out,  but."  *  • 
every  time  he  tried  it  the  man  seemed  to 
come  back  with  a  sheriff,  and  savagely 
warned  him  to  let  it  stay  till  the  year  was 
up.  In  some  mysterious  way  the  agent 
seemed  to  know  every  time  he  brought  out 
the  paint-pot,  and  he  was  no  longer  the 
pleasant-voiced  individual  who  drove  the 
calico  ponies. 

As  lie  stepped  out  into  the  yard  next 
morning,  that  abominable,  sickening,  scrawl- 
ing advertisement  was  the  first  thing  that 
claimed  his  glance — it  blotted  out  the  beau-      "  Lovely,  ain't  it!" 
ty  of  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Ripley  came  to  the  window,  button- 
ing her  dress  at  the  throat,  a  wisp  of  her 
hair  sticking  assertively  from  the  little  knob 
at  the  back  of  her  head. 

"  Lovely,  ain't  it  !  An'  7've  got  to  see 
it  all  day  long.    I  can't  look  out  the  winder 


34 


authors'  readings 


but  that  thing's  right  in  my  face."  It 
seemed  to  make  her  savage.  She  hadn't 
been  in  such  a  temper  since  her  visit  to  New 
York.     "I  hope  you  feel  satisfied  with  it." 

Ripley  walked  off  to  the  barn.  His  pride 
in  its  clean,  sweet  newness  was  gone.  He 
slyly  tried  the  paint  to  see  if  it  couldn't  be 
scraped  off,  but  it  was  dried  in  thoroughly. 
Whereas  before  he  had  taken  delight  in  hav- 
ing his  neighbors  turn  and  look  at  the  build- 
ing, now  he  kept  out  of  sight  whenever  he 
saw  a  team  coming.  He  hoed  corn  away  in 
the  back  of  the  field,  when  he  should  have 
been  bugging  potatoes  by  the  roadside. 

Mrs.  Ripley  was  in  a  frightful  mood  about 
it,  but  she  held  herself  in  check  for  several 
days.    At  last  she  burst  forth  : 

"  Ethan  Ripley,  I  can't  stand  that  thing 
any  longer,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to,  that's  all  ! 
You've  got  to  go  and  paint  that  thing  out, 
or  I  will.    I'm  just  about  crazy  with  it." 

"But,  mother,  I  promised  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  promised,  it's  got 
to  be  painted  out.  I've  got  the  nightmare 
now,  seem'  it.  I'm  goin'  to  send  f'r  a  pail 
o'  red  paint,  and  I'm  goin'  to  paint  that 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


35 


out  if  it  takes  the  last  breath  I've  got  to 
do  it." 

"I'll  tend  to  it,  mother,  if  you  won't 
hurry  me  " 

"  I  can't  stand  it  another  day.  It  makes 
me  boil  every  time  I  look  out  the  winder." 

Uncle  Ethan  hitched  up  his  team  and 
drove  gloomily  off  to  town,  where  he  tried 
to  find  the  agent.  He  lived  in  some  other 
part  of  the  country,  however,  and  so  the  old 
man  gave  up  and  bought  a  pot  of  red  paint, 
not  daring  to  go  back  to  his  desperate  wife 
without  it. 

"  Goin'  to  paint  y'r  new  barn?"  in- 
quired the  merchant,  with  friendly  inter- 
est. 

Uncle  Ethan  turned  with  guilty  sharp- 
ness ;  but  the  merchant's  face  was  grave  and 
kindly. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I'd  touch  it  up  a  little — 
don't  cost  much." 

"It  pays — always,"  the  merchant  said, 
emphatically. 

"Will  it — stick  jest  as  well  put  on  even- 
ings?" inquired  Uncle  Ethan,  hesitat- 
ingly. 


Drove  gloomily 


3" 


authors'  readings 


"  Yes — won't  make  any  difference.  Why  ? 
Ain't  goin'  to  have  " 

"  Wal — I  kind  o'  thought  I'd  do  it  odd 
times  night  an'  mornin' — kind  o'  odd 
times  " 

He  seemed  oddly  confused  about  it,  and 
the  merchant  looked  after  him  anxiously  as 
he  drove  away. 

After  supper  that  night  he  went  out  to 
the  barn,  and  Mrs.  Ripley  heard  him  saw- 
ing and  hammering.  Then  the  noise  ceased, 
and  he  came  in  and  sat  down  in  his  usual 
place. 

"What  y"  ben  makin' ?  "  she  inquired. 
Tewksbury  had  gone  to  bed.  She  sat  darn- 
ing a  stocking. 

"  I  jest  thought  I'd  git  the  stagin'  ready 
f'r  paintin,"  he  said,  evasively. 

"Wal!  I'll  be  glad  when  it's  covered 
up."  When  she  got  ready  for  bed,  he  was 
still  seated  in  his  chair,  and  after  she  had 
dozed  off  two  or  three  times  she  began  to 
wonder  why  he  didn't  come.  When  the 
clock  struck  ten,  and  she  realized  that  he 
had  not  stirred,  she  began  to  get  impatient. 
"  Come,  are  y'  goin'  to  sit  there  all  night  ?  ' ' 


"  A  lazy  jfune  day." 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


39 


There  was  no  reply.  She  rose  up  in  bed  and 
looked  about  the  room.  The  broad  moon 
flooded  it  with  light,  so  that  she  could  see 
he  was  not  asleep  in  his  chair,  as  she  had 
supposed.  There  was  something  ominous 
in  his  disappearance. 

"  Ethan !  Ethan  Ripley,  where  are 
yeh  ?  ' '  There  was  no  reply  to  her  sharp 
call.  She  rose  and  distractedly  looked 
about  among  the  furniture,  as  if  he  might 
somehow  be  a  cat  and  be  hiding  in  a  corner 
somewhere.  Then  she  went  upstairs  where 
the  boy  slept,  her  hard  little  heels  making  a 
curious  tanking  noise  on  the  bare  boards. 
The  moon  fell  across  the  sleeping  boy  like  a 
robe  of  silver.    He  was  alone. 

She  began  to  be  alarmed.  Her  eyes  wid- 
ened in  fear.  All  sorts  of  vague  horrors 
sprang  unbidden  into  her  brain.  She  still 
had  the  mist  of  sleep  in  her  brain. 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs  and  out  into 
the  fragrant  night.  The  katydids  were  sing- 
ing in  infinite  peace  under  the  solemn  splen- 
dor of  the  moon.  The  cattle  sniffed  and 
sighed,  jangling  their  bells  now  and  then, 
and  the  chickens  in  the  coops  stirred  un- 


Looked  about. 


4o 


AUTHORS  READINGS 


easily  as  if  overheated.  The  old  woman 
stood  there  in  her  bare  feet  and  long  night- 
gown, horror-stricken.  The  ghastly  story 
of  a  man  who  had  hung  himself  in  his  barn 
because  his  wife  deserted  him  came  into  her 
mind  and  stayed  there  with  frightful  persist- 
ency.   Her  throat  filled  chokingly. 

She  felt  a  wild  rush  of  loneliness.  She 
had  a  sudden  realization  of  how  dear  that 
gaunt  old  figure  was,  with  its  grizzled  face 
and  ready  smile.  Her  breath  came  quick 
and  quicker,  and  she  was  at  the  point  of 
bursting  into  a  wild  cry  to  Tewksbury,  when 
she  heard  a  strange  noise.  It  came  from  the 
barn,  a  creaking  noise.  She  looked  that 
way,  and  saw  in  the  shadowed  side  a  deeper 
shadow  moving  to  and  fro.  A  revulsion  to 
astonishment  and  anger  took  place  in  her. 

"  Land  o'  Bungay  !  If  he  ain't  paintin' 
that  barn,  like  a  perfect  old  idiot,  in  the 
night." 

Uncle  Ethan,  working  desperately,  did 
not  hear  her  feet  pattering  down  the  path, 
and  was  startled  by  her  shrill  voice. 

"  Well,  Ethan  Ripley,  whaddy  y*  think 
you're  doin'  now  ?  " 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


41 


He  made  two  or  three  slapping  passes  with 
the  brush,  and  then  snapped,  "I'ma-paintm' 
this  barn — whaddy  ye  s'pose?  If  ye  had 
eyes  y'  wouldn't  ask." 

"Well,  you  come  right  straight  to  bed. 
What  d'  you  mean  by  actin'  so  ?  " 

"  You  go  back  into  the  house  an'  let  me 
be.  I  know  what  I'm  a-doin'.  You've 
pestered  me  about  this  sign  jest  about 
enough."  He  dabbed  his  brush  to  and  fro 
as  he  spoke.  His  gaunt  figure  towered 
above  her  in  shadow.  His  slapping  brush 
had  a  vicious  sound. 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time.  At  length 
she  said,  more  gently,  "  Ain't  you  comin' 
in?" 

"  No — not  till  I  get  a-ready.  You  go 
'long  an'  tend  to  y'r  own  business.  Don't 
stan'  there  an'  ketch  cold." 

She  moved  orT  slowly  toward  the  house. 
His  voice  subdued  her.  Working  alone 
out  there  had  rendered  him  savage ;  he 
was  not  to  be  pushed  any  farther.  She 
knew  by  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he 
must  not  be  assaulted.  She  slipped  on  her 
shoes  and  a  shawl,  and  came  back  where 


42 


AUTHORS'  READINGS 


The  majestic  moon 
swung." 


he  was  working,  and  took  a  seat  on  a  saw- 
horse. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  to  set  right  here  till  you 
come  in,  Ethan  Ripley,"  she  said,  in  a  firm 
voice,  but  gentler  than  usual. 

"  Waal,  you'll  set  a  good  while,"  was  his 
ungracious  reply.  But  each  felt  a  furtive 
tenderness  for  the  other.  He  worked  on  in 
silence.  The  boards  creaked  heavily  as  he 
walked  to  and  fro,  and  the  slapping  sound 
of  the  paint-brush  sounded  loud  in  the  sweet 
harmony  of  the  night.  The  majestic  moon 
swung  slowly  round  the  corner  of  the  barn, 
and  fell  upon  the  old  man's  grizzled  head 
and  bent  shoulders.  The  horses  inside  could 
be  heard  stamping  the  mosquitoes  away,  and 
chewing  their  hay  in  pleasant  chorus. 

The  little  figure  seated  on  the  saw-horse 
drew  the  shawl  closer  about  her  thin  shoul- 
ders. Her  eyes  were  in  shadow,  and  her 
hands  were  wrapped  in  her  shawl.  At  last 
she  spoke  in  a  curious  tone. 

"  Wal,  I  don't  know  as  you  was  so  very 
much  to  blame.  I  didn't  want  that  Bible 
myself— I  held  out  I  did,  but  I  didn't." 

Ethan  worked  on  until  the  full  meaning 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 


43 


of  this  unprecedented  surrender  penetrated 
his  head,  and  then  he  threw  down  his 
brush. 

"Wal,  I  guess  I'll  let  'er  go  at  that. 
I've  covered  up  the  most  of  it,  anyhow. 
Guess  we'd  better  go  in." 


"  Wal,  I  guess  I'll  let  'er  go  at  that.1" 


EUGENE  FIELD 


I  will  recite  three  poems,  "Long  Ago"  "Little  Boy 
Blue,"  and  "  Seein  Things"  the  latter  was  suggested  by  a 
talk  with  a  little  boy  friend  of  mine  after  hearing  him 
scream  out  in  his  sleep. 


LONG  AGO 


BY  EUGENE  FIELD 


I  once  knew  all  the  birds  that  came 
And  nested  in  our  orchard  trees  ; 

For  every  flower  I  had  a  name ; 

My  friends  were  woodchucks,  toads,  and 
bees  ; 

I  knew  where  thrived  in  yonder  glen 

What  plants  would  soothe  a  stone-bruised 
toe — 

Oh,  I  was  very  learned  then  ; 
But  that  was  very  long  ago  ! 


Oh,  I  was  very 
learned  then." 


I  knew  the  spot  upon  the  hill 

Where  checkerberries  could  be  found  ; 
I  knew  the  rushes  near  the  mill 

Where  pickerel  lay  that  weighed  a  pound  \ 
I  knew  the  wood — the  very  tree — 

Where  lived  the  poaching,  saucy  crow ; 
All  the  woods  and  crows  knew  me — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago  ! 


\ 


48 


authors'  readings 


' '  fd  wish  to  be  a  boy 
again  y 


And  pining  for  the  joys  of  youth, 

I  tread  the  old  familiar  spot 
Only  to  learn  this  solemn  truth  : 

I  have  forgotten,  am  forgot. 
Yet  here's  this  youngster  at  my  knee 

Knows  all  the  things  I  used  to  know. 
To  think  I  once  was  wise  as  he — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago  ! 
I  know  it's  folly  to  complain 

Of  whatsoe'er  the  Fates  decree  ; 
Yet  were  not  wishes  all  in  vain, 

I  tell  you  what  my  wish  should  be  : 
I'd  wish  to  be  a  boy  again, 

Back  with  the  friends  I  used  to  know 
For  I  was,  oh  !  so  happy  then — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago  ! 


u  1  knew  the  wood— the  very  tree — 

Where  lived  the  poaching,  saucy  crow."" 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE 

BY  EUGENE  FIELD 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 
But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands  ; 

And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 
And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 

Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new 
And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair, 

And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy 
Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


' '  But  sturdy  and 
stanch  he  stands." 


"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"  And  don't  you  make  any  noise  !  " 
So  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys. 
And  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue — 
Oh,  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true. 


52  authors'  readings 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face. 
And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  these  long 
years  through, 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


"  What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue. " 


SEEIN'  THINGS 


BY  EUGENE  FIELD 

I  ain't  afeard  uv  snakes,  or  toads,  or  bugs, 

or  worms,  or  mice, 
An'  things  'at  girls  are  skeered  uv  I  think 

are  awful  nice  ! 
I'm  pretty  brave,  I  guess ;  an'  yet  I  hate  to 

go  to  bed, 

For,  when  I'm  tucked  up  warm  an'  snug  an' 
when  my  prayers  are  said, 

Mother  tells  me  ' '  Happy  dreams  !  ' '  and 
takes  away  the  light, 

An'  leaves  me  lyin'  all  alone  an'  seem' 
things  at  night  ! 

Sometimes  they're  in  the  corner,  sometimes 
they're  by  the  door, 

Sometimes  they're  all  a-standin'  in  the  mid- 
dle uv  the  floor ; 

Sometimes  they  are  a-sittin'  down,  some- 
times they're  walkin'  round 


54  authors'  readings 

So  softly  and  so  creepy-like  they  never  make 
a  sound  ! 

Sometimes  they  are  as  black  as  ink,  an'  other 

times  they're  white — 
But  the  color  ain't  no  difference  when  you 

see  things  at  night  ! 

Once,  when  I  licked  a  feller  'at  had  just 

moved  on  our  street, 
An'  father  sent  me  up  to  bed  without  a  bite 

to  eat, 

I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an'  saw  things  stand- 
in'  in  a  row, 
A-lookin'  at  me  cross-eyed  an'  p'intin'  at 

me — so  ! 

Oh,  my  !  I  wuz  so  skeered  that  time  I  never 

slep'  a  mite — 
It's  almost  alluz  when  I'm  bad  I  see  things 

at  night ! 

Lucky  thing  I  ain't  a  girl,  or  I'd  be  skeered 
to  death  ! 

Bein'  I'm  a  boy,  I  duck  my  head  an'  hold 

my  breath ; 
An'  I  am,  oh  !  so  sorry  I'm  a  naughty  boy, 

an'  then 


authors'  readings 


I  promise  to  be  better  an'  I  say  my  prayers 
again  ! 

Gran 'ma  tells  me  that's  the  only  way  to 

make  it  right 
When  a  feller  has  been  wicked  an'  sees 

things  at  night. 


An'  so,  when  other  naughty  boys  would 

coax  me  into  sin, 
I  try  to  skwush  the  Tempter's  voice  'at 

urges  me  within  ; 
An'  when  they's  pie  for  supper,  or  cakes 

'at's  big  an'  nice, 
I  want  to — but  I  do  not  pass  my  plate  f'r 

them  things  twice  ! 
No,  ruther  let  Starvation  wipe  me  slowly 

out  o'  sight 
Than  I  should  keep  a-livin'  on  an'  seem' 

things  at  night ! 


*'  /  try  to  skwush  the 
Tempter  s  voice." 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 


'  Three  times  they  pulled  up-stream  and  floated  dow  i  past  the  friars." 


/  will  read  the  last  chapter  of  the  story  "  The  Little 
Renault. "  It  will  be  necessary  for  the  reader  to  go  with  me 
back  to  the  year  16S2,  when  La  Salle  and  his  followers  were 
exploring  the  valley  of  the  Illinois. 


THE  LITTLE  RENAULT 


BY  MARY  HART  WELL  CA  THER  WOOD 

The  canoe  was  so  leaky  that  it  had  to  be 
pulled  ashore  when  Tonty's  party  had  rowed 
up-stream  about  twenty-five  miles.  They 
camped  early  in  the  afternoon.  The  two 
priests  built  a  fire,  while  Boisrondet  and 
L'Esperance  cut  branches,  and  with  these 
and  blankets  made  a  couple  of  knotty  mat- 
tresses, on  which  Tonty  and  the  little  Re- 
nault could  rest  with  their  feet  toward 
the  blaze.  Tonty's  wound  was  again  bleed- 
ing. After  efforts  to  mend  the  boat  he 
dropped  upon  his  pallet  in  deadly  sickness, 
and  lay  there  while  the  autumn  afternoon 
dimmed  and  faded  out  as  if  the  smile  of 
God  were  being  withdrawn  from  the  world. 

Father  Ribourde  and  Father  Membre, 
tended  both  patients  with  all  their  monastic 
skill.    The  little  Renault  was  full  of  delirious 


"  While  the  autumn 
afternoon  dimmed  and 
faded." 


60  authors'  readings 

laughter.  L'Esperance,  while  he  labored 
on  the  boat  with  such  calking  as  the  woods 
afforded,  groaned  over  the  lad's  state  and 
reproached  himself  for  ever  grudging  the 
child  service.  Boisrondet  worked  at  drag- 
ging fuel  as  if  his  one  desire  was  to  exhaust 
himself  and  die.  As  night  came  on  he  piled 
a  fire  of  huge  size,  though  it  was  a  danger- 
ous beacon,  for  they  were  camped  on  a  flat 
and  wooded  strip  some  distance  from  shel- 
tering bluffs,  and  their  light  perhaps  drew 
other  prowlers  than  the  Iroquois.  During 
the  night  there  were  stirrings  in  thickets,  and 
once  a  soft  dip  or  two  in  the  river,  as  if  a 
canoe  paddle  had  incautiously  lapsed  to  its 
usual  motion. 

After  a  meagre  supper  Father  Membre 
and  L'Esperance  lay  down  to  sleep  while 
Father  Ribourde  and  Boisrondet  kept  guard. 
The  weather  was  changing,  and  a  chill  wind 
swept  along  the  river  valley.  It  continually 
scattered  the  little  Renault's  curls  over  her 
fever-swollen  face,  and  Boisrondet,  unable 
to  endure  this,  built  up  a  screen  of  brush. 
He  sat  on  the  ground  beside  her  pallet,  and 
Father  Ribourde  sat   at  the  other  side, 


THE  LITTLE  RENAULT 


6l 


though  the  priest  rose  at  intervals  and  ex- 
amined Tonty. 

The  whole  pile  of  burning  logs  was  heaped 
between  the  little  Renault  and  Tonty.  He 
lay  opposite  her,  with  his  feet,  also,  to  the 
fire,  sleeping  as  only  exhausted  frontiersmen 
can  sleep.  Nothing  in  woods  or  stooping 
clouds,  or  in  the  outcry  of  spirits  around 
him,  reached  his  consciousness  all  that  night. 
He  was  suspended  from  the  world  in  a  swoon 
of  sleep.  His  swarthiness  was  so  blanched 
by  loss  of  blood  that  his  black  hair  and 
mustache  startled  the  eye.  Father  Ribourde 
listened  for  his  breath,  into  such  deep  re- 
cesses had  his  physical  life  made  its  retreat. 

But  the  girl  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire  brought  echoes  from  the  darkness.  She 
sang.  She  thought  she  was  dancing  in  a 
whirl  along  peaks,  or  fishing  in  the  river 
with  L'Esperance,  or  shooting  arrows  at  a 
mark  with  young  Indians,  or  moving  across 
the  prairie  with  Tonty  on  his  errand  to  the 
Iroquois.  Through  every  act  ran  gladness. 
She  exulted  upward  through  the  fire-gilt 
branches. 

"  O  Mother  of  God,  what  joy  thou  hast 


"  She  exulted  up' 
ward." 


62  authors'  readings 


given  me  !  If  there  had  been  no  Monsieur 
de  Tonty — think  of  that !  Then  I  should 
have  crouched  like  fields  blackened  in  frost. 
Then  I  should  not  know  what  life  is.  How 
desolate — to  be  without  Monsieur  de  Tonty  ! 
The  savages  and  the  wretches  at  Crevecceur, 
they  are  all  like  grasshoppers  beside  him. 
I  would  rather  have  him  call  me  his  little 
lad  than  be  Queen  of  France. ' ' 

The  priest's  soothing  had  no  effect  on 
her  fever  -  driven  imagination.  She  drank 
when  he  held  a  cup  to  her  mouth,  and  stared 
at  him,  still  laughing.  But  during  several 
hours  there  was  scarcely  a  pause  in  her  talk 
of  Tonty. 

Boisrondet  sat  behind  her  back — for  she 
lay  upon  her  sound  shoulder — and  endured 
all  this.  The  flower  of  martyrdom  and  the 
flower  of  love  bloomed  there  before  the 
priest  in  the  dank  woods  beside  the  collaps- 
ing camp-fire.  The  lonesome,  low  wail  of 
wind  was  contradicted  by  the  little  Renault's 
glad  monotone.  All  the  innocent  thoughts 
which  a  girl  pours  out  to  her  mother  this 
motherless  girl  poured  out  to  Tonty.  It 
was  a  confession  more  sacred  than  any  made 


THE  LITTLE  RENAULT 


63 


to  a  priest.  Boisrondet  put  his  hands  upon 
his  ears. 

Ruddy  embers  shone  on  Father  Membre 
and  L'Esperance,  Recollet's  capote,  and  ser- 
vant's shaggy  dress  rising  and  falling  in  uni- 
son throughout  the  night ;  for  the  watchers 
did  not  wake  them  at  all. 

When  Father  Ribourde  rose  up  again  to 
look  at  Tonty,  Boisrondet  crept  to  his  place 
and  sat  by  the  delirious  girl's  head.  The 
priest  said  nothing,  and  accepted  the  change. 
It  became  his  care  to  keep  the  little  Renault 
from  jarring  her  wound  with  her  groping 
hands. 

Boisrondet 's  eyes  may  have  pierced  the 
floating  veil  of  delirium  to  her  consciousness. 
The  smile  of  vague  happiness  which  she 
gave  the  priest  turned  to  a  look  of  solici- 
tude. 

"  Sieur  de  Boisrondet,  did  I  hurt  you?  " 
she  cried. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Forgive  the  blow." 

"  I  was  grateful  for  it,"  muttered  Bois- 
rondet. 

Still  his  heart-broken  eyes  pierced  the  pa- 


Forgive  the  blow. 


64 


authors'  readings 


Did  I  hurt  you  f  " 


vilion  of  her  gladness,  and  she  cried  out 
again  : 

"  Sieur  de  Boisrondet,  did  I  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no  !  " 

"  Forgive  the  blow." 

"  O  saints  in  heaven  !  "  the  man  groaned, 
holding  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  How  good  is  God,"  said  the  little  Re- 
nault, returning  to  her  heights,  "who  made 
all  His  creatures  so  happy  !    My  Monsieur 

de  Tonty,  my  Monsieur  de  Tonty  ' '  So 

she  moved  on  through  the  clouds. 

Tonty  awoke  at  daybreak  and  stood  up 
weak  and  giddy,  looking  first  at  the  palle 
on  the  other  side  of  the  sylvan  hearth.  A 
stiff  small  figure  was  covered  there,  and 
Boisrondet  was  stretched  beside  it,  face 
downward  on  the  ground. 

"The  poor  little  lad!  "  groaned  Tonty, 
coming  down  on  one  knee  and  lifting  a 
blanket  edge.  "  When  did  he  die,  Bois- 
rondet ?  " 

Without  moving  Boisrondet  said,  from  the 
ground  : 

"  She  died  not  long  after  midnight." 
Her  face  in  its  pillow  of  black  curls  was  a 


THE  LITTLE  RENAULT 


65 


marble  dream  of  gladness.  She  had  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  dead  children,  and 
Tontysaw  her  as  a  dead  child  rather  than  as 
a  woman  triumphant  in  flawless  happiness, 
whose  uninhabited  face  smiled  on  at  her 
wondrous  fate.  She  had  seen  her  hero  in 
his  splendor  without  man-cruelty  and  petti- 
ness. The  world  had  been  a  good  place  to 
the  little  Renault. 

Father  Ribourde  had  no  candles  to  put  at 
her  head  and  feet,  but  he  knelt,  saying  pray- 
ers for  her  peace. 

The  day  was  chill  and  sullen,  and  occa- 
sional spatters  of  sleet  glazed  twigs  and  grass 
tufts.  Father  Membre  and  L'Esperance 
silently  took  the  labors  of  the  camp  upon 
themselves.  They  dug  roots  to  add  to  the 
scant  breakfast  and  brought  fuel.  Boisron- 
det  made  no  response  to  priest  or  comman- 
dant, but  lay  on  the  ground  without  eat- 
ing until  the  slate-gray  afternoon  began  to 
thicken. 

"  Boisrondet,"  then  said  Tonty,  stopping, 
and  taking  his  subaltern  by  the  shoulder, 
"the  Indians  left  us  not  a  tool,  as  you 
know.    We  cannot  hollow  out  any  grave 


66 


authors'  readings 


which  would  be  deep  enough  to  keep  the 
little  lad  from  the  wolves." 

Boisrondet  shivered  as  if  he  were  begin- 
ning to  feel  the  sleet  in  his  hair  and  on  the 
little  Renault's  blanket. 

"  We  shall  have  to  sink  him  in  the  river, 
Boisrondet.    Be  a  man." 

Boisrondet  rose  directly,  with  fierce  readi- 
ness to  do  the  thing  at  once  if  it  must  be 
done.  He  did  not  look  at  her  again,  but 
sat  under  a  tree  with  his  back  turned  while 
preparations  were  made. 

L'Esperance  brought  many  stones,  and 
the  priests  ballasted  and  wound  the  body  in 
the  best  blankets  the  camp  afforded,  tying 
the  packet  well  with  buffalo  thongs.  They 
placed  it  in  the  canoe,  and  Tonty  called 
Boisrondet. 

Both  Recollets  stood  on  the  bank  repeat- 
ing prayers  while  Tonty  and  Boisrondet 
pulled  up  against  the  current.  The  river 
was  a  dull  monster,  but  a  greedy  one, 
reaching  for  its  prey  through  the  boat's 
seams. 

''Will  this  do,  Boisrondet?"  appealed 
Tonty. 


THE  LITTLE  RENAULT  67 


"  Pull  a  little  farther,  monsieur.  I  can- 
not bear  it  yet." 

Tonty  with  his  single-handed  stroke  con- 
tinued to  help  hold  their  boat  against  the 
current. 

Three  times  they  pulled  up-stream  and 
floated  down  past  the  friars. 

< '  Will  this  do,  Boisrondet  ?  "  twice  re- 
peated Tonty.    Twice  the  answer  was  : 

"  Monsieur,  I  cannot  bear  it  yet." 

The  commandant  avoided  gazing  at 
Boisrondet's  misery.  His  fraternal  gaze 
dwelt  on  the  blanket  chrysalis  of  the  little 
Renault.  He  would  have  given  his  remain- 
ing hand — which  meant  his  future  career — 
to  bring  back  the  boy's  life,  but  even  to  his 
large  sympathy  Boisrondet's  passion  was  like 
a  sealed  house.  It  had  been  impossible  for 
him  to  grasp  the  feminine  quality  in  that 
lad's  black  curls  and  flower-fresh  face. 

"  My  poor  Boisrondet,"  he  urged,  "  we 
must  have  the  courage  to  lift  the  little  lad 
and  do  for  him  what  he  would  do  for  us." 

"Lad  !  lad  !  "  burst  out  the  other  with 
scoffing.  "  Always  lad  to  you — the  sweet- 
est woman  that  ever  drew  breath  !  "  His 


68 


authors'  readings 


voice  broke  down,  and  he  distorted  his  face, 
sobbing  aloud. 

Tonty  broke  down  and  sobbed  with  him. 
They  arose  with  a  desperate  impulse  together, 
the  man  she  loved  and  the  other  man  who 
loved  her,  lifted  their  heavy  burden,  poised, 
swung,  and  threw  it  out  upon  the  water. 
It  smote  the  river  and  sank,  and  their  canoe 
reeled  with  the  splashing  and  surging  of  a 
disturbed  current.  Tonty  staggered  and  sat 
down,  gripping  the  sides  of  the  boat,  feeling 
his  wound  start  afresh.  Nature's  old  sigh 
swept  across  the  wind -harp  of  tree-tops.  The 
river  composed  itself  and  again  moved  stead- 
ily, perhaps  rocking  the  packet  in  some 
pebbly  hollow,  perhaps  passing  it  on  toward 
the  Mississippi.  And  the  priests'  voices 
concluded  their  monotone  for  the  dead. 

"  Heaven  give  him  sweet  rest  in  this  river 
of  the  Illinois  !  "  uttered  Tonty.  But  Bois- 
rondet  said  nothing  more. 


■flu. 


"  M.  QUAD." 


"  A  man  leaps  out  of  the  thicket." 


/  will  read  a  sketch  entitled  "  The  Last  of  His  Race,'" 
also  a  bed-time  conversation  between  two  little  boys  called 
"  The  Boys  About  the  House" 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  RACE 


BY  "M.  QUAD" 

An  hour  before  sunset  he  came  out  of  his 
hiding-place  on  the  banks  of  the  Little  Mis- 
souri. Hunger  drove  him  out.  He  sniffed 
the  air  and  looked  about  him  like  a  fugitive. 
He  was  a  fugitive.  His  once  proud  bearing 
had  given  place  to  the  demeanor  of  a  skulk- 
er. The  fire  in  his  eye  had  died  out ;  he 
had  become  thin  and  weak;  he  started  in 
alarm  as  a  coyote  sneaked  out  of  the  bushes 
above  him  and  gave  utterance  to  a  dismal 
howl.  He  startled  by  the  voice  of  such  a 
creature — he,  the  grand  old  buffalo  bull  who 
had  led  a  herd  of  thousands  in  a  hundred 
wild  stampedes,  who  had  known  no  con- 
queror, who  had  traversed  half  a  continent 
unchecked  by  man  or  the  obstacles  of  nature  ! 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  to  the  south. 
From  the  Canadian  line  and  beyond,  down 
to  the  very  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande,  the 


authors'  readings 


American  bison  could  once  be  found  in 
numbers  absolutely  countless.  Their  migra- 
tion made  a  continent  tremble.  Their  stam- 
pedes made  mountains  rock.  A  strip  of 
country  two  thousand  miles  long  by  six  hun- 
dred broad  had  been  their  pasture  ground. 
A  thousand  streams  had  been  made  to  quench 
their  thirst — a  thousand  fords  created  that 
they  might  pass  in  safety. 

And  now  the  end  has  come  !  If  there 
was  one  single  living  buffalo  between  him 
and  the  waters  lapping  the  far  shores  of 
Texas,  it  was  some  craven  in  hiding  like 
himself.  From  the  Laramie  plains  to  the 
waters  of  the  Elkhorn,  from  north  to  south 
of  a  continent,  the  plains,  and  prairies,  and 
valleys  yielded  up  the  monuments  of  man's 
cupidity  in  the  shape  of  bleaching  skeletons. 
They  bleached  in  the  sun  by  day  and  black- 
ened under  the  dews  of  night.  At  every 
yard  was  a  skull  polished  by  the  teeth  of 
wolf,  and  bear,  and  coyote  ;  at  every  rod  a 
skeleton  with  bones  falling  apart  and  half- 
hidden  in  the  grass.  Even  amidst  the  firs, 
and  cedars,  and  pines  on  the  hillsides  were 
bones — carried  there  by  the  vultures,  who 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  RACE 


feasted  and  grew  fat  and  were  lethargic  with 
over-feeding.  Down  in  the  dark  and  dismal 
ravines,  where  the  foot  of  man  had  never  trod, 
up  canyons  where  the  darkness  and  silence 
were  like  a  horrible  nightmare,  there  were 
skulls,  and  ribs,  and  thigh-bones,  dragged 
away  by  panther,  and  grizzly,  and  wildcat. 

Scarred  by  arrows,  wounded  by  bullets, 
pursued  by  foes  from  valley  to  valley  and 
from  river  to  river,  the  whilom  monarch  has 
at  last  found  a  covert  and  a  breathing-spell 
for  a  day.  He  has  skulked  like  a  wounded 
wolf ;  he  has  crouched  like  a  fox  in  his  lair. 
The  cry  of  a  vulture  hovering  high  above 
had  made  him  tremble — he  who  had  driven 
the  dreaded  grizzly  out  of  his  path  more 
than  once,  and  whose  sharp,  stout  horns 
had  sent  more  than  one  Indian  pony  to  his 
death  ! 

Ah  !  But  the  cries  of  the  coyote  have 
brought  company  !  They  come  sneaking 
out  of  thicket,  and  grass,  and  crevice  until 
there  are  a  dozen.  The  youngest  calf  of  a 
herd  would  not  fear  them,  and  yet  their 
angry  snarls  make  the  old  monarch  tremble  ! 
The  sun  seems  to  drop  into  a  lower  notch  as 


74 


authors'  readings 


His  head   is  held 
high" 


the  old  monarch  moves  softly  about  to  snatch 
a  bite  here  and  there,  but  always  keeping 
his  eye  on  the  pack.  As  the  craving  of 
hunger  becomes  partly  satisfied,  the  fire 
comes  back  to  his  eyes,  and  he  even  gives 
his  head  a  defiant  toss.  If  their  howling 
brings  the  savage  wolf,  he  will  die  fighting 
— he  will  die  game.  He  has  fought  them  a 
hundred  battles,  and  never  suffered  defeat. 

Here  they  come  !  He  looks  up  to  find 
himself  almost  encircled.  They  are  hungry 
and  gaunt.  Their  eyes  blaze  and  foam 
falls  from  their  lips  as  they  close  in  on  him. 
Now,  watch  him  !  He  is  no  longer  the 
fugitive — the  craven,  trembling  at  every 
sound.  His  head  is  held  high  ;  there  is  a 
royal  fire  in  his  great  eyes,  and  he  utters  a 
low  bellow  of  defiance  and  paws  the  earth  as 
a  challenge  for  them  to  come  on. 

Crack  !    Crash  !    Hurrah  ! 

The  bull  totters,  sways  to  and  fro,  and 
falls  to  the  earth,  shot  through  the  heart.  A 
man  leaps  out  of  the  thicket,  waves  his  hat 
and  gun,  and  cheers  the  success  of  his  shot, 
while  the  wolves  sneak  away  into  the  twi- 
light and  growl  and  snap  at  each  Other. 


THE  LAST  OF  HIS  RACE 


75 


The  last  of  his  race  is  dead.  He  would 
have  died  fighting  as  a  monarch  should,  but 
man  prevented.  It  is  the  last  hide — the 
last  feast  for  wolves  and  vultures — the  last 
monument  to  mark  man's  savagery  when 
stirred  by  cupidity  and  selfishness. 


"  The  last  of  his  race  is  dead" 


THE  BOYS  AROUND  THE  HOUSE 


BY  "M.  QUAD" 

Surely  you  must  have  seen  a  boy  of  eight 
or  ten  years  of  age  get  ready  for  bed  ?  His 
shoestrings  are  in  a  hard  knot,  and  after  a 
few  vain  efforts  to  unlace  them  he  rushes 
after  a  case-knife  and  saws  each  string  in 
two.  One  shoe  is  thrown  under  the  table, 
the  other  behind  the  stove,  his  jacket  behind 
the  door,  and  his  stockings  are  distributed 
over  as  many  chairs  as  they  will  reach. 

The  boy  doesn't  slip  his  pants  off;  he 
struggles  out  of  them,  holding  a  leg  down 
with  his  foot  and  drawing  his  limbs  out  after 
many  stupendous  efforts.  While  doing  this 
his  hands  are  clutched  into  the  bedclothes, 
and  by  the  time  he  is  ready  to  get  into  bed 
the  quilts  and  sheets  are  awry  and  the  bed  is 
full  of  humps  and  lumps.  His  brother  has 
gone  through  the  same  motions,  and  both 
finally  crawl  into  bed.   They  are  good  boys, 


7« 


AUTHORS*  READINGS 


and  they  love  each  other,  but  they  are 
hardly  settled  on  their  backs  when  one  cries 
out — 

"  Hitch  along  !  " 

"  I  won't,"  bluntly  replies  the  other. 
"Ma,  Bill's  got  more'n  half  the  bed!  " 
cries  the  first. 

"  Hain't  either,  ma  !  "  replies  Bill. 
There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then 
the  first  exclaims — 

"  Get  yer  feet  off'n  me!" 
"They  hain't  touching  you!"  is  the 
answer. 

"  Yes,  they  be,  and  you're  on  my  pillow, 
too!  " 

"  Oh  !  my  stars,  what  a  whopper  !  You'll 
never  go  to  heaven  !  ' ' 

The  mother  looks  into  the  bedroom  and 
kindly  says — 

"Come,  children,  be  good,  and  don't 
make  your  mother  any  trouble. ' ' 

"Well,"  replies  the  youngest,  "  if  Bill  '11 
tell  me  a  bear  story  I'll  go  to  sleep." 

The  mother  withdraws,  and  Bill  starts 
out — 

"Well,  you  know,  there  was  an  old  bear 


THE  BOYS  AROUND  THE  HOUSE  79 

who  lived  in  a  cave.  He  was  a  big  black 
bear.  He  had  eyes  like  coals  of  fire,  you 
know,  and  when  he  looked  at  a  feller  he — " 

"Ma,  Bill's  scaring  me!"  yells  Henry, 
sitting  on  end. 

"Oh,  ma!  that's  the  awfullest  story  you 
ever  heard  !  ' '  replies  Bill. 

"  Hitch  along,  I  say  !  "  exclaims  Henry. 

"  I  am  along  !  "  replies  Bill. 

"  Get  yer  knee  out'n  my  back  !  " 

"  Hain't  anywhere  near  ye  !  " 

"  Gimme  some  cloze  !  " 

"  You've  got  more'n  half  now  !  " 

"  Come,  children,  do  be  good  and  go  to 
sleep,"  says  the  mother,  entering  the  room 
and  arranging  the  clothes. 

They  doze  off  after  a  few  muttered  words, 
to  preserve  the  peace  until  morning,  and  it 
is  popularly  supposed  that  an  angel  sits  on 
each  bedpost  to  sentinel  either  curly  head 
during  the  long,  dark  hours. 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 


I  will  read  the  poems  "  Which  Are  You?"  "Solitude," 
and  "  The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod. " 


WHICH  ARE  YOU? 


BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX 

There  are  two  kinds  of  people  on  earth  to- 
day, 

Just  two  kinds  of  people  ;  no  more,  I  say. 
Not  the  sinner  and  saint,  for  it's  well  under- 
stood, 

The  good  are  half  bad,  and  the  bad  are  half 
good. 

Not  the  rich  and  the  poor,  for  to  count  a 
man's  wealth 

You  must  first  know  the  state  of  his  con- 
science and  health. 

Not  the  humble  and  proud,  for  in  life's  little 
span, 

Who  puts  on  vain  airs,  is  not  counted  a  man. 

Not  the  happy  and  sad,  for  the  swift-flying 
years 

Bring  each  man  his  laughter  and  each  man 
his  tears. 


84 


authors'  readings 


No  ;  the  two  kinds  of  people  on  earth  that 
I  mean, 

Are  the  people  who  lift  and  the  people  who 
lean. 

Wherever  you  go,  you  will  find  the  earth's 
masses, 

Are  always  divided  in  just  these  two  classes, 
And,  oddly  enough,  you  will  find,  too,  1 
ween, 

There  is  only  one  lifter  to  twenty  who  lean. 

In  which  class  are  you  ?   Are  you  easing  the 
load, 

Of  overtaxed  lifters,  who  toil  down  the  road  ? 
Or  are  you  a  leaner,  who  lets  others  bear 
Your  portion  of  labor  and  worry  and  care  ? 


*•  In  which  class  are  you  ?  " 


SOLITUDE 

BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you ; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone, 
For  the  sad  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth, 

But  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own. 


Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer :  ,,,     ,  ... 

&'  ;  " Laugh,  and the  world 

Sigh,  it  is  lost  on  the  air,  laughs  with  you:' 

The  echoes  bound  to  a  joyful  sound, 
But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you  ; 

Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go. 
They  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure, 

But  they  do  not  need  your  woe. 
Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many  ; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all — 
There  are  none  to  decline  your  nectar'd 
wine, 

But  alone  you  must  drink  life's  gall. 


86  authors'  readings 

Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded  ; 

Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by. 
Succeed  and  give,  and  it  helps  you  live, 

But  no  man  can  help  you  die. 
There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 

For  a  large  and  lordly  train, 
But  one  by  one  we  must  all  file  on 

Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD 


BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX 

Come,  cuddle  your  head  on  my  shoulder, 
dear, 

Your  head  like  the  golden-rod, 
And  we  will  go  sailing  away  from  here 

To  the  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 
Away  from  life's  hurry,  and  flurry,  and 
worry, 

Away  from  earth's  shadows  and  gloom, 
To  a  vorld  of  fair  weather  we'll  float  off  to- 
gether 

Where  roses  are  always  in  bloom. 

Just  shut  up  your  eyes,  and  fold  your  hands, 
Your  hands  like  the  leaves  of  a  rose, 

And  we  will  go  sailing  to  those  fair  lands 
That  never  an  atlas  shows. 

On  the  North  and  the  West  they  are  bound- 
ed by  rest, 
On  the  South  and  the  East,  by  dreams ; 


88 


authors'  readings 


'Tis  the  country  ideal,  where  nothing  is 
real, 

But  everything  only  seems. 

Just  drop  down  the  curtains  of  your  dear 
eyes, 

Those  eyes  like  a  bright  blue-bell, 
And  we  will  sail  out  under  starlit  skies, 

To  the  land  where  the  fairies  dwell. 
Down  the  river  of  sleep,  our  barque  shall 
sweep, 

Till  it  reaches  that  mystical  Isle 
Which  no  man  hath  seen,  but  where  all  have 
been, 

And  there  we  will  pause  awhile. 
I  will  croon  you  a  song  as  we  float  along, 

To  that  shore  that  is  blessed  of  God, 
Then  ho  !  for  that  fair  land,  we're  off  for 
that  rare  land, 

That  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 


OPIE  READ 


On  turning  over  a  book  of  my  first  short  stories  1  have 
found  "  A  Backwoods  Sunday,"  a  sketch  I  once  memor- 
ized and  will  now  endeavor  to  recite. 


A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY 


BY  OPIE  READ 


A  Sunday  in  the  backwoods  of  Tennes- 
see, viewed  by  one  whose  feet  rarely  stray 
from  the  worn  paths  of  active  life,  may 
hold  nothing  attractive,  but  to  the  old  men 
and  women — the  youth  and  maiden  of  the 
soil — it  is  a  poem  that  comes  once  a  week 
to  encourage  young  love  with  its  soft  senti- 
ment and  soothe  old  labor  with  its  words  of 
promise.  In  the  country  where  the  streams 
are  so  pure  that  they  look  like  strips  of  sun- 
shine, where  the  trees  are  so  ancient  that 
one  almost  stands  in  awe  of  them,  where  the 
moss,  so  old  that  it  is  gray,  and  hanging 
from  the  rocks  in  the  ravine,  looks  like 
venerable  beards  growing  on  faces  that  have 
been  hardened  by  years  of  trouble — in  such 
a  country  even  the  most  slouching  clown, 
walking  as  though  stepping  over  clods  when 


92 


authors'  readings 


ploughing  where  the  ground  breaks  up  hard, 
has  in  his  untutored  heart  a  love  of  poetry. 
He  may  not  be  able  to  read — may  never 
have  heard  the  name  of  a  son  of  genius,  but 
in  the  evening,  when  he  stands  on  a  pur- 
ple "knob,"  watching  the  soul  of  day  sink 
out  of  sight  in  a  far-away  valley,  he  is  a 
poet. 

When  the  shadow  of  Saturday  night  falls 
upon  a  backwoods  community  in  Tennes- 
see, a  quiet  joy  seems  to  lurk  in  the  atmos- 
phere. The  whippoorwill  has  sung  unheeded 
every  night  during  the  week,  but  to-night 
his  song  brings  a  promise  of  rest.  The  tired 
boy  sits  in  the  door,  and,  taking  off  his 
shoes,  strikes  them  against  the  log  door-step 
to  knock  the  dirt  out;  and  the  cat  that  has 
followed  the  women  when  they  went  to  milk 
the  cows,  comes  and  rubs  against  him.  The 
humming-bird,  looking  for  a  late  supper, 
buzzes  among  the  honeysuckle  blossoms,  and 
the  tree-toad  cries  in  the  locust-tree.  The 
boy  goes  to  bed,  thrilled  with  an  expecta- 
tion. He  muses:  "I  will  see  somebody 
to-morrow." 

On   the  morrow  the  woods  are  full  of 


A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY  93 

music.  The  great  soul  of  day  rises  with  a 
burst  of  glory,  and  the  streams,  bounding 
over  the  rocks  or  dreaming  among  the  ferns, 
laugh  more  merrily  and  seem  to  be  brighter 
than  they  were  yesterday.  Horses  neigh 
near  an  old  log-church  and  a  swelling  hymn 
is  borne  away  on  the  blossom -seen ted  air. 
The  ploughboy,  sitting  near  the  spring,  heeds     „  The great soul of  day 

not  the  sacred  music,  but  gazes  intently  rises  " 

down  the  shady  road.  He  sees  some  one 
coming — sees  the  fluttering  of  a  gaudy  rib- 
bon and  is  thrilled.  A  young  woman  comes 
up  the  road,  coyly  tapping  an  old  mare  with 
a  dogwood  switch,  and  eager  lest  some  one 
else  may  perform  the  endearing  office,  he 
hastens  to  help  the  young  woman  to  alight. 
He  tries  to  appear  unconcerned  as  he  takes 
hold  of  the  bridle-rein,  but  he  stumbles 
awkwardly  as  he  leads  the  animal  toward  the 
horse-block.  When  he  has  helped  her  down 
and  has  tied  the  horse  it  is  his  blessed  privi- 
lege to  walk  with  the  girl  as  far  as  the 
church-door. 

"  What's  Jim  a-doin'?"  he  asks,  as  they 
walk  along  under  the  embarrassing  gaze  of  a 
score  of  men. 


94 


authors'  readings 


"  Ploughed  yistidy;  ain't  doin'  nothin' 
to-day." 

"Be  here  to-day,  I  reckon,"  he  rejoins. 

"He  went  to  preachin'  at  Ebeneezer." 

"What's  Tom  a-doin'  ?" 

"Went  to  mill  yistidy ;  ain't  doin'  nothin' 
to-day. ' ' 

"Be  here  to-day,  I  reckon." 

"He  'lowed  he  mout,  but  I  don't  know 
whether  he  will  or  not." 

"What's  Alf  a-doin'?" 

"Cut  sprouts  an'  deadened  trees  yistidy; 
ain't  doin'  nothin'  to-day." 

"Be  here  to-day,  I  reckon." 

"Yes,  'lowed  he  was  a-comin'  with  Sue 
Prior." 

"Anybody  goin'  home  with  you,  Liza?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"Wall,  if  nobody  else  ain't  spoke,  I'd 
like  to  go." 

"We'll  see  about  it,"  she  answers,  and 
then  enters  the  church.  He  saunters  off 
and  sits  down  under  a  tree  where  a  number 
of  young  men-  are  wallowing  on  shawls 
spread  on  the  grass.  The  preacher  becomes 
warm  in  his  work  and  the  ploughboy  hears 


A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY  95 


him  exclaim :  "  What  can  a  man  give  in 
exchange  for  his  own  soul;  "  but  he  is  not 
thinking  of  souls,  or  of  an  existence  beyond 
the  horizon  of  this  life ;  his  mind  is  on  the 
girl  with  the  gaudy  ribbon,  and  he  is  asking 
his  heart  if  she  loves  him.  The  shadows  are 
now  shorter  and  hungry  men  cast  glances  at 
the  sun,  but  the  preacher,  shouting  in  broken 
accents,  appears  not  to  have  reached  the  first 
mile-stone  of  his  text,  and  it  is  evident  that 
he  started  out  with  the  intention  of  going  a 
"  Sabbath-day's  journey."  One  young  fel- 
low places  his  straw  hat  over  his  face  and 
tries  to  sleep,  but  some  one  tickles  him  with 
a  spear  of  grass.  An  old  man  who  has 
stood  it  as  long  as  he  could  in  the  house, 
and  who  has  come  out  and  lain  down,  gets 
up,  stretches  himself,  brushes  a  clinging  leaf 
off  his  gray  jeans  trousers  and  declares : 
"  A  bite  to  eat  would  hit  me  harder  than  a 
sermon  writ  on  a  rock.  Don't  see  why  a 
man  wants  to  talk  all  day." 

"Thought  you  was  mighty  fond  of 
preachin',  Uncle  John,"  some  one  remarks. 

"  Am,  but  I  don't  want  a  man  to  go  over 
an'  over  what  he  has  already  dun  said.  If 


96 


authors'  readings 


my  folks  wa'n't  in  thar  I'd  mosey  off  home 
an'  git  suthin'  to  eat." 

"  Good  book  says  a  man  don't  live  by 
bread  alone,  Uncle  John." 

"  Yas,  but  it  don't  say  that  he  lives  by 
preachin'  alone,  nuther.  Hoi'  on ;  they 
are  singin'  the  doxology  now,  an'  I  reckon 
she  will  soon  be  busted." 

The  ploughboy  goes  home  with  his  divin- 
ity— Uncle  John's  daughter.  "  Reckon 
Jim  will  be  at  home?  "  he  asks,  as  they  ride 
along. 

"  He  mout  be.  Air  you  awful  anxious 
to  see  him  ?  ' ' 

"Not  so  powerful.  Jest  'lowed  I'd  ask. 
I  know  who's  yo'  sweetheart,"  he  says,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Bet  you  don't." 

"Bet  I  do." 

"  Who  is  it  then,  Mr.  Smarty  ?  " 
"Aleck  Jones." 

"Who,  him?  Think  I'd  have  that 
freckle-faced  thing  ?  " 

"Wall,  if  he  ain't,  I  know  who  is." 

"  Bet  you  couldn't  think  of  his  name  in 
a  hundred  years." 


98 


authors'  readings 


"  You  mout  think  I  can't,  but  I  can." 
4 'Wall,    who,  then,  since   you   are  so 
smart  ?  ' ' 

"  Morg  Atcherson." 

"  Ho,  I  wouldn't  speak  to  him  if  I  was 
to  meet  him  in  the  road." 

"  But  you'd  speak  to  some  people  if  you 
was  to  meet  them  in  the  road,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  would." 

"  Who  would  you  speak  to  ?  " 

"  Oh,  lots  of  folks.  Did  you  see  that  bird 
almost  hit  me?  "  she  suddenly  exclaims. 

"  I  reckon  he  'lowed  you  was  a  flower." 

"Oh,  he  didn't,  no  such  of  a  thing. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yo'se'f  to  make 
fun  of  me  thater  way." 

"I  wa'n't  makin'  fun  of  you.  Ho,  if  I 
was  ter  ketch  anybody  makin'  fun  of  you  it 
wouldn't  be  good  for  him." 

"  What  would  you  do?  " 

"I'd  whale  him." 

"  You  air  awful  brave,  ain't  you?  " 

"  Never  mind  whut  I  am  ;  I  know  that  if 
any  man  was  to  make  fun  of  you  he'd  have 
me  to  whup." 


A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY  99 


A  number  of  people  have  stopped  at 
Uncle  John's  house.  They  sit  in  the  large 
passageway  running  between  the  two  sections 
of  the  log-building,  and  the  men,  who  have 
not  heard  the  sermon,  discuss  it  with  the 
women  who  were  compelled  to  hear  it  from 
halting  start  to  excited  finish.  The  sun  is 
blazing  out  in  the  fields  and  the  June-bugs 
are  buzzing  in  the  yard.  It  is  indeed  a  day 
of  rest  for  the  young  and  old,  but  is  it  a 
restful  time  for  the  housewife?  Does  that 
woman,  with  flushed  face,  running  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  dining-room,  and  then  to  the 
spring-house  for  the  crock  jar  of  milk,  ap- 
pear to  be  resting  ?  Do  the  young  men  and 
women  who  are  lolling  in  the  passage  realize 
that  they  are  making  a  slave  of  her  ?  '  Prob- 
ably not,  for  she  assures  them  that  it  is  not 
a  bit  of  trouble,  yet  when  night  comes — 
when  the  company  is  gone — she  sinks  down, 
almost  afraid  to  wish  that  Sunday  might 
never  come  again,  yet  knowing  that  it  is  the 
day  of  her  heavy  bondage.  Old  labor  has 
been  soothed  and  young  love  has  been  en- 
couraged, but  her  trials  and  anxieties  have  »  it  is  indeed  a  day  of 
been  more  than  doubled.  rest-" 


ioo  authors'  readings 

It  is  night,  and  the  boy  sits  in  the  door 
taking  off  his  shoes.  To-morrow  he  must 
go  into  the  hot  field,  but  he  does  not  think 
of  that.  His  soul  is  full  of  a  buoyant  love 
— buoyant,  for  the  girl  with  the  gaudy  rib- 
bon has  promised  to  be  his  wife. 


BILL  NYE 


"  A  morning  scamper  through  a  conservatory  when  the 
syringas  and  jonquils  and  jack  roses  lie  cuddled  up  to- 
gether in  their  little  beds,  is  a  thing  to  remember  and 
look  back  to  and  pay  for. " 


With  your  patient  indulgence  I  will  tell  you  "  How  to  Hunt 
the  Fox  "  and  will  also  deliver  one  of  my  essays  on  sleep,  entitled 
"  A  Blasted  Snore."" 


HOW  TO  HUNT  THE  FOX 

BY  BILL  NYE 

The  joyous  season  for  hunting  is  again 
upon  us,  and  with  the  gentle  fall  of  the  au- 
tumn leaf  and  the  sough  of  the  scented 
breezes  about  the  gnarled  and  naked  limbs 
of  the  wailing  trees,  the  huntsman  comes 
with  his  hark  and  his  halloo  and  hurrah, 

' '  The  huntsman  comes. 

boys,  the  swift  rush  of  the  chase,  the  thrill- 
ing scamper  'cross  country,  the  mad  dash 
through  the  Long  Islander's  pumpkin-patch 
— also  the  mad  dash,  dash,  dash  of  the  farm- 
er, the  low  moan  of  the  disabled  and  frozen- 
toed  hen  as  the  whooping  horsemen  run  her 
down  ;  the  wild  shriek  of  the  children,  the 
low,  melancholy  wail  of  the  frightened  shoat 
as  he  flees  away  to  the  straw  pile,  the  quick 
yet  muffled  plunk  of  the  frozen  tomato,  and 
the  dull  scrunch  of  the  seed  cucumber. 
The  huntsman  now  takes  the  flannels  off 


104  authors'  readings 

his  fox,  rubs  his  stiffened  limbs  with  gar- 
gling oil,  ties  a  bunch  of  firecrackers  to  his 
tail,  and  runs  him  around  the  barn  a  few 
times  to  see  if  he  is  in  good  order. 

The  foxhound  is  a  cross  of  the  blood- 
hound, the  greyhound,  the  bulldog,  and  the 
chump.  When  you  step  on  his  tail  he  is 
said  to  be  in  full  cry.  The  foxhound  ob- 
tains from  his  ancestors  on  the  bloodhound 
side  of  the  house  his  keen  scent,  which  en- 
ables him  while  in  full  cry  'cross  country  to 
pause  and  hunt  for  chipmunks.  He  also  ob- 
tains from  the  bloodhound  branch  of  his 
family  a  wild  yearning  to  star  in  an  "  Uncle 
Tom  "  company,  and  watch  little  Eva  me- 
ander up  the  flume,  at  two  dollars  per  week. 
From  the  greyhound  he  gets  his  most  mirac- 
ulous speed,  which  enables  him  to  attain  a 
rate  of  velocity  so  great  that  he  is  unable  to 
halt  during  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  fre- 
quently running  so  far  during  the  day  that 
it  takes  him  a  week  to  get  back,  when,  of 
course,  all  interest  has  died  out.  From  the 
the  bulldog  the  foxhound  obtains  his  great  tenac- 
ity of  purpose,  his  deep-seated  convictions, 
his  quick  perceptions,  his  love  of  home  and 


HOW  TO  HUNT  THE  FOX  105 

his  clinging  nature.  From  the  chump  the 
foxhound  gets  his  high  intellectuality  and 
that  mental  power  which  enables  him  to  dis- 
tinguish almost  at  a  glance  the  salient  points 
of  difference  between  a  two-year-old  steer 
and  a  two-dollar  bill. 

The  fox -hound  is  about  two  feet  in 
height,  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  of 
them  would  be  considered  an  ample  number 
for  a  quiet  little  fox-hunt.  Some  hunters 
think  this  number  inadequate,  but  unless  the  "Ought 
fox  be  unusually  skittish  and  crawl  under  the 
barn,  one  hundred  and  twenty  foxhounds 
ought  to  be  enough.  The  trouble  generally 
is  that  hunters  make  too  much  noise,  thus 
scaring  the  fox  so  that  he  tries  to  get  away 
from  them.  This  necessitates  hard  riding 
and  great  activity  on  the  part  of  the  whip- 
pers-in.  Frightening  a  fox  almost  always 
results  in  sending  him  out  of  the  road  and 
compelling  horsemen  to  stop  in  order  to 
take  down  a  panel  of  fence  every  little  while 
that  they  may  follow  the  animal,  and  before 
you  can  get  the  fence  put  up  again  the  own- 
er is  on  the  ground,  and  after  you  have 
made  change  with  him  and  mounted  again 


io6  authors'  readings 

the  fox  may  be  nine  miles  away.  Try  by 
all  means  to  keep  your  fox  in  the  road  ! 

It  makes  a  great  difference  what  kind  of 
fox  you  use,  however.  I  once  had  a  fox  on 
my  Pumpkin  Butte  estates  that  lasted  me 
three  years,  and  I  never  knew  him  to  shy  or 
turn  out  of  the  road  for  anything  but  a  load- 
ed team.  He  was  the  best  fox  for  hunting 
purposes  that  I  ever  had.  Every  spring  I 
would  sprinkle  him  with  Scotch  snuff  and 
put  him  away  in  the  bureau  till  fall.  He 
would  then  come  out  bright  and  chipper. 
He  was  always  ready  to  enter  into  the  chase 
with  all  the  chic  and  embonpoint  of  a  regu- 
lar Kenosha,  and  nothing  pleased  him  better 
than  to  be  about  eight  miles  in  advance  of 
my  thoroughbred  pack  in  full  cry,  scamper- 
ing 'cross  country,  while  stretching  back  a 
few  miles  behind  the  dogs  followed  a  pale 
young  man  and  his  fiancier,  each  riding  a 
horse  that  had  sat  down  too  hard  on  his  tail 
some  time  and  driven  it  into  his  system 
about  six  joints. 

Some  hunters,  who  are  madly  and  passion- 
ately devoted  to  the  sport,  leap  their  horses 
over  fences,  moats,  donjon  keeps,  hedges. 


HOW  TO  HUNT  THE  FOX  107 

and  currant  bushes  with  utter  sang-froid  and 
the  wild,  unfettered  toot  ongsomble  of  a 
brass  band.  It  is  one  of  the  most  spirited 
and  touchful  of  sights  to  see  a  young  fox- 
hunter  going  home  through  the  gloaming 
with  a  full  cry  in  one  hand  and  his  pancreas 
in  the  other. 

Some  like  to  be  in  at  the  death,  as  it  is 
called,  and  it  is  certainly  a  laudable  ambi- 
tion. To  see  one  hundred  and  twenty  dogs 
hold  out  against  a  ferocious  fox  weighing 
nine  pounds ;  to  watch  the  brave  little  band 
of  dogs  and  whippers  -  in  and  horses  with 
sawed-off  tails,  making  up  in  heroism  what 
they  lack  in  numbers,  succeeding  at  last  in 
ridding  the  country  of  the  ferocious  brute 
which  has  long  been  the  acknowledged  foe 
of  the  human  race,  is  indeed  a  fine  sight. 

We  are  too  apt  to  regard  fox-hunting 
merely  as  a  relaxation,  a  source  of  pleasure, 
and  the  result  of  a  desire  to  do  the  way  peo- 
ple do  in  the  novels  which  we  steal  from 
English  authors ;  but  this  is  not  all.  To 
successfully  hunt  a  fox,  to  jump  fences  'cross 
country  like  an  unruly  steer,  is  no  child's 
play.    To  ride  all  day  on  a  very  hot  and 


io8  authors'  readings 


restless  saddle,  trying  to  lope  while  your 
horse  is  trotting,  giving  your  friends  a  good 
view  of  the  country  between  yourself  and 
your  horse,  then  leaping  stone  walls,  break- 
ing your  collar-bone  in  four  places,  pulling 
out  one  eye  and  leaving  it  hanging  on  a 
plum-tree,  or  going  home  at  night  with  your 
transverse  colon  wrapped  around  the  pom- 
mel of  your  saddle  and  your  liver  in  an  old 
newspaper,  requires  the  greatest  courage. 

Too  much  stress  cannot  be  placed  upon 
the  costume  worn  while  fox-hunting,  and  in 
fact,  that  is,  after  all,  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  chase.  For  ladies,  nothing  looks  better 
than  a  close-fitting  jacket,  sewed  together 
with  thread  of  the  same  shade,  and  a  skirt. 
Neat-fitting  cavalry  boots  and  a  plug  hat 
complete  the  costume.  Then,  with  a  hue  in 
one  hand  and  a  cry  in  the  other,  she  is  pre- 
pared to  mount.  Lead  the  horse  up  to  a 
stone  wall  or  a  freight  car  and  spring  lightly 
into  the  saddle  with  a  glad  cry.  A  freight 
car  is  the  best  thing  from  which  to  mount  a 
horse,  but  it  is  too  unwieldy  and  frequently 
delays  the  chase.  For  this  reason,  too, -much 
luggage  should  not  be  carried  on  a  fox-hunt. 


I  IO 


AUTHORS  READINGS 


Some  gentlemen  carry  a  change  of  canes, 
neatly  concealed  in  a  shawl-strap,  but  even 
this  may  be  dispensed  with. 

For  gentlemen,  a  dark,  four-button  cut- 
away coat,  with  neat,  loose-fitting  white- 
panties,  will  generally  scare  a  fox  into  con- 
vulsions, so  that  he  may  be  easily  killed  with 
a  club.  A  short-waisted  plug  hat  may  be 
worn  also,  in  order  to  distinguish  the  hunter 
from  the  whipper-in,  who  wears  a  baseball  cap. 
The  only  fox-hunting  I  have  ever  done  was 
on  board  an  impetuous,  tough-bitted,  fore- 
and-aft  horse  that  had  emotional  insanity.  I 
was  dressed  in  a  swallow-tail  coat,  waistcoat 
of  Scotch  plaid  Turkish  towelling,  and  a 
pair  of  close-fitting  breeches  of  etiquette 
tucked  into  my  boot-tops.  As  I  was  away 
from  home  at  the  time  and  could  not  reach 
my  own  steed  I  was  obliged  to  mount  a 
spirited  steed,  with  high,  intellectual  hips, 
one  white  eye,  and  a  big  red  nostril  that  you 
could  set  a  Shanghai  hen  in.  This  horse, 
as  soon  as  the  pack  broke  into  full  cry, 
climbed  over  a  fence  that  had  wrought-iroiv 
briers  on  it,  lit  in  a  corn-field,  stabbed  his 
hind  leg  through  a  sere  and  yellow  pumpkin, 


HOW  TO  HUNT  THE  FOX  III 

which  he  wore  the  rest  of  the  day,  with 
seven  yards  of  pumpkin  vine  streaming  out 
behind,  and  away  we  dashed  'cross  country. 
I  remained  mounted  not  because  I  enjoyed 
it,  for  I  did  not,  but  because  I  dreaded  to 
dismount.  I  hated  to  get  off  in  pieces.  If 
I  can't  get  off  a  horse's  back  as  a  whole,  I 
would  rather  adhere  to  the  horse.  I  will 
adhere  that  I  did  so. 

We  did  not  see  the  fox,  but  we  saw  almost 
everything  else.  I  remember,  among  other 
things,  of  riding  through  a  hothouse,  and 
how  I  enjoyed  it.  A  morning  scamper 
through  a  conservatory  when  the  syringas 
and  jonquils  and  jack  roses  lie  cuddled  up 
together  in  their  little  beds,  is  a  thing  to  re- 
member and  look  back  to  and  pay  for.  To 
stand  knee-deep  in  glass  and  gladiolas,  to 
smell  the  mashed  and  mussed  up  mignonette 
and  the  last  fragrant  sigh  of  the  scrunched 
heliotrope  beneath  the  hoof  of  your  horse, 
while  far  away  the  deep-mouthed  baying 
of  the  hoarse  hounds,  hotly  hugging  the 
reeking  trail  of  the  anise-seed  bag,  calls  on 
the  gorgeously  caparisoned  hills  to  give  back 
their  merry  music  or  fork  it  over  to  other 


112 


authors'  readings 


answering  hills,  is  joy  to  the  huntsman's 
heart. 

On,  on  I  rode  with  my  unconfined  locks 
streaming  behind  me  in  the  autumn  wind. 
On  and  still  on  I  sped,  the  big,  bright 
pumpkin  slipping  up  and  down  the  gambrel 
of  my  spirited  horse  at  every  jump.  On, 
and  ever  on,  we  went,  shedding  terror  and 
pumpkin-seeds  along  our  glittering  track  till 
my  proud  steed  ran  his  leg  in  a  gopher  hole 
and  fell  over  one  of  those  machines  that  they 
put  on  a  high-headed  steer  to  keep  him  from 
jumping  fences.  As  the  horse  fell,  the  neck- 
lace of  this  hickory  poke  flew  up  and  ad- 
justed itself  around  my  throat.  In  an  in- 
stant my  steed  was  on  his  feet  again,  and 
gayly  we  went  forward  while  the  prong  of 
this  barbarous  appliance,  ever  and  anon 
ploughed  into  a  brand  new  culvert  or  rooted 
up  a  clover  field.  Every  time  it  ran  into 
an  orchard  or  a  cemetery  it  would  jar  my 
neck  and  knock  me  silly.  But  I  could  see 
with  joy  that  it  reduced  the  speed  of  my 
horse.  At  last  as  the  sun  went  down,  reluc- 
tantly, it  seemed  to  me,  for  he  knew  that  he 
would  never  see  such  riding  again,  my  ill- 


HOW  TO  HUNT  THE  FOX  113 


spent  horse  fell  with  a  hollow  moan,  curled 
up,  gave  a  spasmodic  quiver  with  his  little, 
nerveless,  sawed-off  tail,  and  died. 

The  other  huntsmen  succeeded  in  treeing 
the  anise-seed  bag  at  sundown,  in  time  to 
catch  the  six  o'clock  train  home. 

Fox-hunting  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
pastimes  of  which  I  know,  and  for  young 
men  whose  parents  have  amassed  large  sums 


of  money  in  the  intellectual  pursuit  of  hides  ii  Fell  with  a  hollow 
and  tallow,  the  meet,  the  chase,  the  scamper,  moan" 
the  full  cry,  the  cover,  the  stellated  fracture, 
the  yelp  of  the  pack,  the  yip,  the  yell  of 
triumph,  the  confusion,  the  whoop,  the  holla, 
the  hallos,  the  hurrah,  the  abrasion,  the  snort 
of  the  hunter,  the  concussion,  the  sward,  the 
open,  the  earth-stopper,  the  strangulated 
hernia,  the  glad  cry  of  the  hound  as  he 
brings  home  the  quivering  seat  of  the  peas- 
ant's pantaloons,  the  yelp  of  joy  as  he  lays 
at  his  master's  feet,  the  strawberry  mark  of 
the  rustic — all,  all  are  exhilarating  to  the 
sons  of  our  American  nobility. 

Fox-hunting  combines  the  danger  and  the 
wild  tumultuous  joy  of  the  skating-rink,  the 
toboggan  slide,  the  mush-and-milk  sociable, 
and  the  straw  ride. 


A  BLASTED  SNORE 


BY  BILL  NYE 

Sleep,  under  favorable  circumstances,  is  a 
great  boon.  Sleep,  if  natural  and  undis- 
turbed, is  surely  as  useful  as  any  other  scien- 
tific discovery.  Sleep,  whether  administered 
at  home  or  abroad,  under  the  soporific  influ- 
ences of  an  underpaid  preacher  or  the  un- 
yielding wooden  cellar-door  that  is  used  as  a 
blanket  in  the  sleeping-car,  is  a  harmless 
dissipation  and  a  cheerful  relaxation. 

Let  me  study  a  man  for  the  first  hour  after 
he  has  wakened  and  I  will  judge  him  more 
correctly  than  I  would  to  watch  him  all 
winter  in  the  Legislature.  We  think  we  are 
pretty  well  acquainted  with  our  friends,  but 
we  are  not  thoroughly  conversant  with  their 
peculiarities  until  we  have  seen  them  wake 
up  in  the  morning. 

I  have  often  looked  at  the  men  I  meet  and 
thought  what  a  shock  it  must  be  to  the  wives 


Il6  authors'  readings 


of  some  of  them  to  wakg  i|p  and  see  their 
husbands  before  they  have  had  time  to  pre- 
pare, and  while  their  minds  are  still  chaotic. 

The  first  glimpse  of  a  large,  fat  man,  whose 
brain  has  drooped  down  behind  his  ears,  and 
whose  wheezy  breath  wanders  around  through 
the  catacombs  of  his  head  and  then  emerges 
from  his  nostrils  with  a  shrill  snort  like  the 
yelp  of  the  damned,  must  be  a  charming 
picture  for  the  eye  of  a  delicate  and  beautiful 
second  wife  ;  one  who  loves  to  look  on  green 
meadows  and  glorious  landscapes;  one  who 
has  always  wakened  with  a  song  and  a  ripple 
of  laughter  that  fell  on  her  father's  heart 
like  a  shower  of  sunshine  in  the  sombre  green 
of  the  valley. 

It  is  a  pet  theory  of  mine  that  to  be  pleas- 
antly wakened  is  half  the  battle  for  the  day. 
If  we  could  be  wakened  by  the  refrain  of  a 
joyous  song,  instead  of  having  our  front 
teeth  knocked  out  by  one  of  those  patent 
pillow-sham  holders  that  sit  up  on  their  hind 
feet  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  until  we  dream 
that  we  are  just  about  to  enter  Paradise  and 
have  just  passed  our  competitive  examina- 
tion, and  which  then  swoop  down  and  mash 


Under  the  soporific  influences  of  an  underpaid  preacher. 


nS  authors'  readings 


'Makes  the  hair  pull." 


us  across  the  bridge  of  the  nose,  there  would 
be  less  insanity  in  our  land  and  death  would 
be  regarded  more  in  the  light  of  a  calamity. 

When  you  waken  a  child  do  it  in  a  pleas- 
ant way.  Do  not  take  him  by  the  ear  and 
pull  him  out  of  bed.  It  is  disagreeable  for 
the  child,  and  injures  the  general  tout  ensem- 
ble of  the  ear.  Where  children  go  to  sleep 
with  tears  on  their  cheeks  and  are  wakened 
by  the  yowl  of  dyspeptic  parents,  they  have 
a  pretty  good  excuse  for  crime  in  after  years. 
If  I  sat  on  the  bench  in  such  cases  I  would 
mitigate  the  sentence. 

It  is  a  genuine  pleasure  for  me  to  wake  up 
a  good-natured  child  in  a  good-natured  way. 
Surely  it  is  better  from  those  dimpled  lids  to 
chase  the  sleep  with  a  caress  than  to  knock 
out  slumber  with  a  harsh  word  and  a  bed- 
slat. 

No  one  should  be  suddenly  wakened  from 
a  sound  sleep.  A  sudden  awaking  reverses 
the  magnetic  currents,  and  makes  the  hair 
pull,  to  borrow  an  expression  from  Dante. 
The  awaking  should  be  natural,  gradual,  and 
deliberate. 

A  sad  thing  occurred  last  summer  on  an 


A  BLASTED  SNORE 


II9 


Omaha  train.  It  was  a  very  warm  day,  and 
in  the  smoking-car  a  fat  man,  with  a  magenta 
fringe  of  whiskers  over  his  Adam's  apple,  and 
a  light,  ecru  lambrequin  of  real  camel's-hair 
around  the  suburbs  of  his  head,  might  have 
been  discovered. 

He  could  have  opened  his  mouth  wider, 
perhaps,  but  not  without  injuring  the  main- 
spring of  his  neck  and  turning  his  epiglottis 
out  of  doors. 

He  was  asleep. 

He  was  not  only  slumbering,  but  he  was 
putting  the  earnestness  and  passionate  devo- 
tion of  his  whole  being  into  it.  His  shiny, 
oil-cloth  grip,  with  the  roguish  tip  of  a  dis- 
carded collar  just  peeping  out  at  the  side, 
was  up  in  the  iron  wall-pocket  of  the  car. 
He  also  had,  in  the  seat  with  him,  a  market- 
basket  full  of  misfit  lunch  and  a  two-bushel 
bag  containing  extra  apparel.  On  the  floor 
he  had  a  crock  of  butter  with  a  copy  of  the 
Punkville  Palladium  and  Stock  -  Grower' 's 
Guardian  over  the  top. 

He  slumbered  on  in  a  rambling  sort  of  a 
way,  snoring  all  the  time  in  monosyllables, 
except  when  he  erroneously  swallowed  his 


He  was  asleep. 


A  BLASTED  SNORE 


121 


tonsils,  and  then  he  would  struggle  awhile 
and  get  black  in  the  face,  while  the  passen- 
gers vainly  hoped  that  he  had  strangled. 

While  he  was  thus  slumbering,  with  all 
the  eloquence  and  enthusiasm  of  a  man  in 
the  full  meridian  of  life,  the  train  stopped 
with  a  lurch,  and  the  brakeman  touched  his 
shoulder. 

"Here's  your  town,"  he  said.  "We 
only  stop  a  minute.    You'll  have  to  hustle." 

The  man,  who  had  been  far  away,  wres- 
tling with  Morpheus,  had  removed  his  hat, 
coat,  and  boots,  and  when  he  awoke  his  feet 
absolutely  refused  to  go  back  into  the  same 
quarters. 

At  first  he  looked  around  reproachfully  at 
the  people  in  the  car.  Then  he  reached  up 
and  got  his  oil-cloth  grip  from  the  bracket. 
The  bag  was  tied  together  with  a  string,  and 
as  he  took  it  down  the  string  untied.  Then 
we  all  discovered  that  this  man  had  been  on 
the  road  for  a  long  time,  with  no  object,  ap- 
parently, except  to  evade  laundries.  All 
kinds  of  articles  fell  out  in  the  aisle.  I  re- 
member seeing  a  chest-protector  and  a  linen 
coat,  a  slab  of  seal-brown  gingerbread  and 


122 


AUTHORS*  READINGS 


a  pair  of  stoga  boots,  a  hair-brush  and  a 
bologna  sausage,  a  plug  of  tobacco  and  a 
porous  plaster. 

He  gathered  up  what  he  could  in  both 
arms,  made  two  trips  to  the  door  and  threw 
out  all  he  could,  tried  again  to  put  his  num- 
ber eleven  feet  into  his  number  nine  boots 

i 

gave  it  up,  and  socked  himself  out  of  the 
car  as  it  began  to  move,  while  the  brakeman 
bombarded  him  through  the  window  for  two 
miles  with  personal  property,  groceries,  dry- 
goods,  boots  and  shoes,  gents'  furnishing 
goods,  hardware,  notions,  bric-a-brac,  red 
herrings,  clothing,  doughnuts,  vinegar  bit- 
ters, and  facetious  remarks. 

Then  he  picked  up  the  retired  snorer's 
railroad  check  from  the  seat,  and  I  heard 
him  say:  "  Why,  dog  on  it,  that  wasn't  his 
town  after  all." 


WILL  CARLETON 


kno7vn  : 

And  I  found  that  he  had  very  similar  notions  of  his 
own." 


I  will  recite  "  The  Christmas  Baby  "  and  "  The  Lightning 
Rod  Dispenser  "from  Farm  Legends. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BABY 


BY  WILL  CARLETON 

"  Th'art  welcome,  little  bonny  brid, 

But  shouldn't  ha'  come  just  when  tha'  did  : 
Teimes  are  bad." 
— English  Ballad. 

Hoot  !  ye  little  rascal  !  ye  come  it  on  me 
this  way, 

Crowdin'  yerself  amongst  us  this  blusterin'         Crowdiri yerself 
winter's  day,  amongst  us." 

Knowin'  that  we  already  have  three  of  ye, 
an'  seven, 

An'  tryin'  to  make  yerself  out  a  Christmas 
present  o'  Heaven  ? 

Ten  of  ye  have  we  now,  Sir,  for  this  world 
to  abuse ; 

An'  Bobbie  he  have  no  waistcoat,  an'  Nellie 
she  have  no  shoes, 


126 


authors'  readings 


An'  Sammy  he  have  no  shirt,  Sir  (I  tell  it  to 

his  shame), 

An'  the  one  that  was  just  before  ye  we  ain't 
had  time  to  name  ! 


An'  all  o'  the  banks  be  smashin',  an'  on  us 

poor  folk  fall ; 
An'  Boss  he  whittles  the  wages  when  work's 

to  be  had  at  all ; 
An'  Tom  he  have  cut  his  foot  off,  an'  lies  in 

a  woful  plight, 
An'  all  of  us  wonders  at  mornin'  as  what  we 


shall  eat  at  night ; 

— ye  rascal / 

An'  but  for  your  father  an'  Sandy  a-findin' 

somewhat  to  do, 
An'  but  for  the  preacher's  good  wife,  who 

often  helps  us  through, 
An'  but  for  your  poor  dear  mother  a-doin' 

twice  her  part, 
Ye'd  'a'  seen  us  all  in  heaven  afore  ye  was 

ready  to  start ! 

An'  now  ye  have  come,  ye  rascal !  so  healthy 

an'  fat  an'  sound, 
A  weighin',  I'll  wager  a  dollar,  the  full  of  a 

dozen  pound ! 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BABY  I  27 

With  yer  mother's  eyes  a-flashin',  yer  father's 

flesh  an'  build, 
An'  a  good  big  mouth  an'  stomach  all  ready 

for  to  be  filled  ! 

No,  no  !  don't  cry,  my  baby  !  hush  up,  my 

pretty  one  ! 
Don't  get  my  chaff  in  yer  eye,  boy — I  only 

was  just  in  fun. 
Ye' 11  like  us  when  ye  know  us,  although 

we're  cur' us  folks; 
But  we  don't  get  much  victual,  an'  half  our 

livin'  is  jokes  ! 

Why,  boy,  did  ye  take  me  in  earnest  ?  come, 

sit  upon  my  knee  ; 
Til  tell  ye  a  secret,  youngster,  I'll  name  ye 

after  me. 

Ye  shall  have  all  yer  brothers  an*  sisters 

with  ye  to  play, 
An'  ye  shall  have  yer  carriage,  an'  ride  out 

every  day  ! 

Why,  boy,  do  ye  think  ye' 11  suffer?  I'm 

gettin'  a  trifle  old, 
But  it'll  be  many  years  yet  before  I  lose  my 

hold: 


128 


authors'  readings 


An'  if  I  should  fall  on  the  road,  boy,  still, 

them's  yer  brothers  there, 
An'  not  a  rogue  of  'em  ever  would  see  ye 

harmed  a  hair  ! 

Say  !  when  ye  come  from  heaven,  my  little 

namesake  dear, 
Did  ye  see,  'mongst  the  little  girls  there,  a 

face  like  this  one  here  ? 
That  was  yer  little  sister — she  died  a  year 

ago, 

An'  all  of  us  cried  like  babies  when  they  laid 
her  under  the  snow  ! 

Hang  it !  if  all  the  rich  men  I  ever  see  or 
knew 

Came  here  with  all  their  traps,  boy,  an' 

offered  them  for  you, 
I'd  show  them  to  the  door,  Sir,  so  quick 

they'd  think  it  odd, 
Before  I'd  sell  to  another  my  Christmas  gift 

from  God  ! 


"  Before  I'd  sell  to  another — " 


THE  LIGHTNING-ROD  DISPENSER 


BY  WILL  CARLRTON 


Which  this  railroad  reminds  me,  in  an  un- 
derhanded way, 

Of  a  lightning-rod  dispenser  that  came  down 
on  me  one  day  ; 

Oiled  to  order  in  his  motions — sanctimonious 
in  his  mien — 

Hands  as  white  as  any  baby's,  an'  a  face  un- 
nat'ral  clean  ; 


Not  a  wrinkle  had  his  raiment,  teeth  and     ^  Hls  fiew.constructed 
linen  glittered  white,  neck-tie." 

And  his  new-constructed  neck-tie  was  an  in- 
terestin'  sight ! 

Which  I  almost  wish  a  razor  had  made  red 
that  white -skinned  throat, 

And  that  new-constructed  neck-tie  had  com- 
posed a  hangman's  knot, 


130  authors'  readings 


Ere  he  brought  his  sleek-trimmed  carcass  for 

my  woman-folks  to  see, 
And  his  buzz-saw  tongue  a-runnin'  for  to 

gouge  a  gash  in  me ! 

Still  I  couldn't  help  but  like  him — as  I  fear 
I  al'ays  must, 

The  gold  o'  my  own  doctrines  in  a  fellow- 
heap  o'  dust ; 

For  I  saw  that  my  opinions,  when  I  fired 
'em  round  by  round, 

Brought  back  an  answerin'  volley  of  a  mighty 
similar  sound. 

I  touched  him  on  religion,  and  the  joys  my 
heart  had  known  : 

And  I  found  that  he  had  very  similar  notions 
of  his  own. 

I  told  him  of  the  doublings  that  made  sad 

my  boyhood  years : 
Why,  he's  laid  awake  till  morning  with  that 

same  old  breed  of  fears  ! 
I  pointed  up  the  pathway  that  I  hoped  to 

heaven  to  go  : 
He  was  on  that  very  ladder,  only  just  a  round 

below  ! 


THE  LIGHTNING-ROD  DISPENSER  131 

Our  politics  was  different,  and  at  first  he 

galled  and  winced ; 
But  I  arg'ed  him  so  able,  he  was  very  soon 

convinced. 

And  'twas  tow'rd  the  middle  of  a  hungry 
summer  day — 

There  was  dinner  on  the  table,  and  I  asked 
him,  would  he  stay? 

And  he  sat  him  down  among  us — everlastin' 
trim  and  neat — 

And  he  asked  a  short,  crisp  blessin',  almost 
good  enough  to  eat ! 

Then  he  fired  upon  the  mercies  of  our  Ever- 
lastin' Friend, 

Till  he  gi'n  the  Lord  Almighty  a  good  first- 
class  recommend ; 

And  for  full  an  hour  we  listened  to  that 
sugar-coated  scamp — 

Talkin'  like  a  blessed  angel — eatin'  like  a 
blasted  tramp ! 

My  wife — she  liked  the  stranger,  smiling  on 

him  warm  and  sweet ; 
(It  al'ays  flatters  women  when  their  guests 

are  on  the  eat !) 


132 


AUTHORS  READINGS 


And  he  hinted  that  some  ladies  never  lose 

their  youthful  charms, 
And  caressed  her  yearlin'  baby,  an'  received 

it  in  his  arms. 
My  sons  and  daughters  liked  him — for  he 

had  progressive  views, 
And  he  chewed  the  cud  o'  fancy,  and  gfn 

down  the  latest  news  ; 
And  I  couldn't  help  but  like  him — as  I 

fear  I  al'ays  must, 
The  gold  of  my  own  doctrines  in  a  fellow- 
heap  o'  dust. 

He  was  chiselin'  desolation  through  a  piece 

of  apple-pie, 
When  he  paused  and  gazed  upon  us,  with  a 
tear  in  his  off-eye, 
With  a  tear  in  his     And  said,  "  Oh,  happy  family! — your  joys 

off-eye"  they  ma]ce  me  sa(J  J 

They  all  the  time  remind  me  of  the  dear 

ones  once  I  had ! 
A  babe  as  sweet  as  this  one;  a  wife  almost 

as  fair ; 

A  little  girl  with  ringlets — like  that  one  over 
there. 


"  Like  that  one  over  there? 


THE  LIGHTNING-ROD   DISPENSER      I  33 

But  had  I  not  neglected  the  means  within 
my  way, 

Then  they  might  still  be  living,  and  loving 
me  to-day. 

"One  night  there  came  a  tempest;  the 

thunder-peals  were  dire ; 
The  clouds  that  marched  above  us  were 

shooting  bolts  of  fire  ; 
In  my  own  house  I,  lying,  was  thinking,  to 

my  blame, 

How  little  I  had  guarded  against  those  bolts 
of  flame, 

When  crash  ! — through  roof  and  ceiling  the 

deadly  lightning  cleft, 
And  killed  my  wife  and  children,  and  only 

I  was  left. 

"  Since  then  afar  I've  wandered,  and  naught 
for  life  I've  cared, 

Save  to  save  others'  loved  ones  whose  lives 
have  yet  been  spared ; 

Since  then  it  is  my  mission,  where'er  by 
sorrow  tossed, 

To  sell  to  worthy  people  good  lightning- 
rods  at  cost. 


•  Have  yet  been  spared. 


134  authors'  readings 


With  sure  and  strong  protection  I'll  clothe 

your  buildings  o'er; 
'Twill  cost  you — twenty  dollars  (perhaps  a 

trifle  more ; 
Whatever  else  it  comes  to,  at  lowest  price 

I'll  put ; 

You  simply  sign  a  contract  to  pay  so  much 
per  foot  '■). 

I — signed  it !  while  my  family,  all  approvin' 

stood  about ; 
The  villain  dropped  a  tear  on't — but  he 

didn't  blot  it  out  ! 
That  self-same  day,  with  wagons  came  some 

rascals  great  and  small ; 
They  hopped  up  on  my  buildin's  just  as  if 

they  owned  'em  all ; 
They  hewed  'em  and  they  hacked  'em — 

ag'in'  my  loud  desires — 
They  trimmed  'em  off  with  gewgaws,  and 

they  bound  'em  down  with  wires. 
They  hacked  'em  and  they  hewed  'em,  and 

they  hewed  and  hacked  'em  still, 
And  every  precious  minute  kep'  a-runnin' 


•  A-rmnin'  up  a  bill." 


THE  LIGHTNING-ROD  DISPENSER      1 35 

To  find  my  soft-spoke  neighbor,  did  I  rave 

and  rush  an'  run  : 
He  was  suppin'  with  a  neighbor,  just  a  few 

miles  farther  on. 
"  Do  you  think,"  I  loudly  shouted,  "  that 

I  need  a  mile  o'  wire, 
For  to  save  each  separate  haycock  out  o' 

heaven's  consumin'  fire? 
Did  you  think,  to  keep  my  buildin's  out  o' 

some  uncertain  harm, 
I  was  goin'  to  deed  you  over  all  the  balance 

of  my  farm  ?  ' ' 

He  silenced  me  with  silence  in  a  very  little 
while, 

And  then  trotted  out  the  contract  with  a  re- 
assuring smile ; 

And  for  half  an  hour  explained  it,  with  ex- 
asperating skill, 

While  his  myrmurdums  kep'  probably  a-run- 
nin'  up  my  bill. 

He  held  me  to  that  contract  with  a  firmness 
queer  to  see ; 

'Twas  the  very  first  occasion  he  had  dis- 
agreed with  me ! 


"  /  loudly  shouted." 


"  He  had  disagreed  with  me." 


136  authors'  readings 


And  for  that  'ere  thunder  story,  ere  the  ras- 
cal finally  went, 

I  paid  two  hundred  dollars,  if  I  paid  a  single 
cent. 

And  if  any  lightnin'  rodist  wants  a  dinner- 
dialogue 

With  the  restaurant  department  of  an  enter- 

prisin'  dog, 
Let  him  set  his  mouth  a-runnin',  just  inside 

my  outside  gate ; 
And  I'll  bet  two  hundred  dollars  that  he 

don't  have  long  to  wait. 


cc  I'll  bet  two  hundred  dollars. 


"  THE  CHILDREN'S  POET" 


Eugene  Field  was  born  in  St.  Louis, 
Mo.,  on  the  third  day  of  September,  1850. 
He  died  in  Chicago  on  the  fourth  day  of 
November,  1895. 

Mr.  Field  was  of  New  England  stock,  his 
parents  being  Vermonters.  Roswell  M. 
Field,  his  father,  was  a  man  of  marked  in- 
tellectuality. He  was  Dred  Scott's  first  at- 
torney in  the  case  which  resulted  in  the 
famous  Dred  Scott  decision  by  the  United 
States  Supreme  Court.  Eugene  Field's 
mother  died  in  1857,  and  the  boy,  who  was 
then  seven  years  old,  went  to 
live  with  his  aunt,  Miss  Mary 
Field  French,  of  Amherst,  Mass. 
He  remained  under  her  care  un- 
til he  was 
nineteen 
years  of  age. 

When  he 
was  nine 


The  Eugene  Field  Home, 
Buena  Park,  Chicago. 


144        "the  children's  poet" 

years  old  he  went  for  a  seventeen  months' 
visit  to  the  old  homestead  in  Vermont,  where 
his  grandmother  lived.  It  was  his  first  expe- 
rience of  country  life,  and  he  has  said  that 
his  love  of  nature  dated  from  that  visit.  His 
grandmother,  who  was  an  old-school  New 
England  Congregationalist,  gave  young  Field 
thorough  discipline  in  Biblical  lore.  She 
gave  him  ten  cents  for  every  sermon  he  wrote, 
and  Eugene,  being  phenomenally  versatile 
even  at  that  age,  earned  a  good  many  dimes. 
The  first  money  he  earned  in  a  literary  way 
was  by  writing  those  sermons.  Although  he 
did  not  like  it,  his  grandmother  made  him 
commit  to  memory  section  after  section  of 
the  Bible,  with  the  result  that  in  later  life 
he  regarded  his  knowledge  of  the  holy  book 
as  invaluable.  His  father  had  taken  pains 
to  perfect  him  in  the  classics.  He  required 
the  correspondence  between  them  to  be  car- 
ried on  in  Latin. 

Between  1868  and  187 1  Mr.  Field  at- 
tended successively  Williams  College,  Knox 
College,  at  Galesburg,  111.,  and  the  Missouri 
State  University>  at  Columbia.  His  father 
died  in  1869.    In  187 1,  having  attained 


"  THE  CHILDREN'S  POET  " 


145 


his  majority,  he  came  into  possession  of 
$60,000,  his  share  of  his  father's  estate. 
What  he  did  with  that  money  was  typical  of 
his  generosity.  He  took  one  of  his  intimate 
friends,  a  brother  of  the  lady  (Julia  S.  Corn- 
stock,  of  St.  Joseph,  Mo.)  he  afterward  mar- 
ried, and  went  to  Europe. 

"  I  spent  six  months  and  my  patrimony 
in  France,  Italy,  Ireland  and  England,"  is 
the  way  Field  described  the  trip,  "  I  just 
threw  the  money  around.  Just  think  of  it, 
a  boy  of  twenty-one,  without  father  or 
mother,  and  with  $60,000 !  It  was  a  lovely 
experience.  I  had  money.  I  paid  it  out 
for  experience — it  was  plenty.  Experience 
was  lying  around  loose."  All  his  life  his 
money  was  apt  to  go  in  gratification  of  the 
impulse  of  the  moment. 

On  his  return  home  with  an  empty  purse, 
he  went  into  journalism,  beginning  as  a  re- 
porter on  the  St.  Louis  "Journal."  Subse- 
quently he  was  city  editor  of  the  St.  Joseph 
"  Gazette,"  editorial  writer  on  the  St.  Louis 
"Journal"  and  St.  Louis  "Times-Jour- 
nal," managing  editor  of  the  Kansas  City 
"  Times  "  and  the  Denver  "  Tribune."  In 


Mr,  Field's  pict- 
uresque rainy 
day  garb. 


146  ' '  THE  CHILDREN'S  POET  " 


How  Mr.  Field  got  his 
salary  increased. 


1883  he  went  to  the  Chicago  "  News  " 
(now  the  "  Record  ")  and  began  the  daily 
column  of  "  Sharps  and  Flats,"  which  made 
him  one  of  the  best  known  and  most  relished 
newspaper  writers  in  the  country.  His  con- 
nection with  that  paper  continued  until  his 
death.  There  was  rarely  a  day  that 
Field's  full  column  failed  to  appear,  but 
outside  of  this  task  he  found  time  to  do 
much  additional  writing,  to  lect- 
ure and  read  from  his  works, 
and  to  produce  most  of  the  child 
poems  which  have  made  him  uni- 
versally famous. 

The  way  in  which  Mr.  Field 
once  secured  an  increase  of  salary 
from  the  editor  of  the  Chicago 
"  News  "  is  characteristic  of  the 
man.  Morning  after  morning  he 
had  gone  to  the  office  fully  re- 
solved to  make  a  demand  foi 
more  pay  in  the  customary  form,  for  the 
need  of  an  increase  had  grown  pressing ; 
but  each  time  his  heart  failed  him.  Sud- 
denly, one  morning,  there  appeared  before 
the  astonished  editor  a  tall,  starved-looking 


"  THE  CHILDREN'S  POET  " 


147 


man  of  beggarly  aspect,  followed  by  a  line 
of  the  most  pitiable-looking  children  imagin- 
able. The  clothes  of  all  were  tattered  and 
worn,  and  their  faces  were  dirty,  gaunt,  and 
hungry.  It  was  Field,  his  four  small  chil- 
dren, and  several  sorry-looking  specimens  of 
childhood  whom  he  had  picked  up  on  the 
street.  The  players  had  been  well  coached. 
All  stretched  forth  pleading  hands  and 
looked  appealingly  into  the  editor's  eyes, 
and  Mr.  Field,  with  a  beggar's  sadness, 
asked:  * '  Please,  sir,  won't  you  raise  my 
salary  ?  "  The  prayer  was  promptly  granted. 

For  some  years  before  his  death  Mr.  Field 
lived  in  a  very  attractive  home  in  Buena 
Park,  a  suburb  of  Chicago,  and  there,  in 
what  he  loved  to  call  his  "den,"  he  did 
much  of  his  better  work.  In  that  "  den," 
literally  almost  buried  in  newspapers,  sur- 
rounded by  thousands  of  objects,  beautiful 
or  grotesque,  which  showed  the  rage  of  the 
collector,  he  wrought  methodically  many 
hours  a  day,  taking  wonderful  pains  with  his 
work,  pondering  and  doubting,  revising  and 
revising  again.  He  sat  in  an  arm-chair  that 
once  belonged  to  Jefferson  Davis,  and  on  his 


148  "THE  CHILDREN'S  POET  " 

table  was  an  inkstand  used  by  Napoleon. 
Near  at  hand  were  Charles  A.  Dana's  scissors 
and  Gladstone's  famous  axe,  presented  to 
him  by  Mr.  Gladstone  himself.  Scores  of  me- 
chanical toys  and  small  images,  hundreds  of 
dolls  and  odd  bottles  of  different  shapes  and 
sizes,  old  China,  strange  pewter  dishes  were 
all  jumbled  together  about  him. 

In  writing  of  his  likes  and  dis- 
likes, Mr.  Field  said,  among  oth- 
er things:  "  I  believe  in  ghosts, 
in  witches,  and  in  fairies.  I 
adore  dolls.  I  dislike  all  exer- 
cise, and  play  all  games  indiffer- 
Eu^ene  Field's  I  l°ve  to  read  in  bed. 

work-shop.  I   hate  wars,   armies,  soldiers, 

guns,  and  fireworks.  If  I  could 
have  my  way  I  should  make  the  abuse  of 
horses,  dogs,  and  cattle  a  penal  offence ;  I 
should  abolish  all  dog  laws  and  dog-catchers, 
and  I  would  punish  severely  everybody  who 
caught  and  caged  birds. ' '  The  poet  often 
had  canaries  in  his  "den,"  but  they  were 
not  confined  to  the  limits  of  a  cage.  They 
flew  about  the  room,  often  alighting  on  his 
shoulders  while  he  wrote. 


11  THE  CHILDREN'S  POET  "  149 

The  accompanying  full-page  picture  of 
Mr.  Field  was  made  at  his  home  one  hot 
day  in  August,  1894.  While  posing,  with 
the  usual  injunction  not  to  move  any  more 
than  necessary,  he  heard  the  patter  of  his  lit- 
tle boy  "  Posey's  "  feet  on  the  stairs. 

"  Come,  'Posey';  come  to  papa,"  he 
called.  Forgetting  his  special  sitting,  he 
went  to  the  door,  caught  the  lusty  little  fel- 
low in  his  arms,  came  back,  and  sat  down, 
saying,  caressingly:  "  Well,  course,  'Posey' 
wants  his  picture  taken,  too."  A  new  leaf 
was  turned  in  the  sketch-book,  and  the  pict- 
ure of  father  and  child  was  made.  Other 
children  came  in  during  the  sitting,  and  still 
others  could  be  heard  playing  in  the  yard. 
There  were  children  everywhere.  Mr.  Field 
loved  to  have  it  so.  Retaining  as  a  man 
much  of  his  own  boyish  sportfulness,  he 
easily  made  himself  with  children  as  one  of 
themselves.  The  sketch  being  finished  the 
poet  wrote  under  it  an  appropriate  stanza 
from  "  Long  Ago,"  and  inscribed  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  drawing,  in  his  fine  hand  :  "  Buena 
Park,  111.,  '  The  Creche,'  "  and,  after  writ- 
ing it,  he  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  said  : 


150       "the  children's  poet" 

"  You  know  people  always  call  our  place 
'  The  Creche.'    Pretty  good  name,  too." 

Among  the  published  works  of  Eugene 
Field  are:  "  A  Little  Book  of  Western 
Verse,"  "A  Little  Book  of  Profitable 
Tales,"  "With  Trumpet  and  Drum," 
"Second  Book  of  Verse,"  "Love  Songs 
of  Childhood,"  "Love  Affairs  of  a  Biblio- 
maniac," "Echoes  from  the  Sabine  Farm," 
and  "The  Holy  Cross  and  Other  Tales." 
All  but  the  last  two  are  published  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 

The  three  poems  selected  for  this  volume 
are  used  with  permission  from  the  author 
and  the  publishers. 

"  Seem'  Things"  is  from  "Love  Songs 
of  Childhood,"  "Little  Boy  Blue"  and 
"Long  Ago"  from  "A  Little  Book  of 
Western  Verse." 


"  A  PIONEER  POET  " 


Will  Carleton,  among  the  first  of  na- 
tive poets  to  idealize  in  song  the  simple 
farm  life  of  our  country,  was  born  on  the 
twenty-first  day  of  October,  1845,  on  a  farm 
near  Hudson,  Mich.  His  father  was  a  prac- 
tical, hard-working,  pioneer  farmer.  His 
mother  often  wrote  verses  of  merit.  Mr. 
Carleton  was  filled  with  an  ambition  to  be- 
come a  poet  when  he  was  a  mere  lad.  His 
first  poem,  written  when  he  was  ten  years 
old,  was  a  letter  in  rhyme  to  an  older  sister. 
That  sister  had  considerable  poetic  talent  her- 
self, but  she  died  at  an  early  age.  The  lad 
was  also  ambitious  to  become  an  orator,  and 
to  that  end  practised  in  the  fields  of  the  farm, 
with  the  sheep,  cows,  and  horses  as  an  audi- 
ence. He  had  an  eager  desire  for  learning, 
going  to  the  District  School  winters  and 
working  on  his  father's  farm  summers. 

A  course  at  the  village  High  School  being 
completed,  he  longed  to  go  to  College.  His 


154 


"  A  PIONEER  POET  " 


father  could  not  afford  to  send  him,  so  he 
taught  school  for  four  years  at  sixteen  dollars 
a  month,  in  order  to  earn  the  money  necessary 
to  make  a  start.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he 
entered  Hillsdale  College,  at  Hillsdale,  Mich. 
He  ran  short  of  money  at  the  close  of  his 
Junior  year.  That  was  campaign  year,  1868, 
and  he  wrote  a  campaign  poem  entitled 
"  Fax."  He  decided  to  "  try  it  on"  in 
a  town  at  a  distance  from  Hillsdale.  A 
small  room  was  hired  in  which  to  deliver  the 
poetic  lecture.  To  advertise  the  event  Mr. 
Carleton  bought  a  large  amount  of  wall-pa- 
per for  a  small  amount  of  money,  and  in  a 
paint-shop  lettered  gaudy  posters  which  he 
tacked  up  in  conspicuous  places  about  town. 
A  few  people  heard  the  lecture  and  declared 
it  was  so  good  that  it  must  be  repeated  in 
a  larger  hall.  A  church  was  secured  and  a 
large  audience  was  present.  Several  dollars 
above  expenses  were  cleared,  and  in  that  and 
neighboring  towns  Carleton  made  enough 
money  during  his  vacation,  by  delivering  the 
lecture,  to  complete  his  College  course.  At 
the  Commencement  he  read  a  poem  entitled 
"Rifts  in  the  Cloud." 


"A  PIONEER  POET  " 


155 


At  graduation  he  was  practically  penniless, 
and  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  for  a  living. 
He  was  too  ambitious  to  go  back  to  farming, 
and  revolted  at  the  idea  of  resuming  his 
work  as  schoolmaster.  His  ambition  was  to 
become  a  recognized  poet,  and  one  day,  by 
way  of  experiment,  he  sent  a  poem  to  a 
humble  paper  in  Chicago.  It  pleased  the 
editor,  who  offered  him  a  position  on  his 
staff  at  twelve  dollars  a  week.  He  accepted 
eagerly.  A  few  months  later  he  returned 
to  Michigan,  the  editor  of  the  Hillsdale 
"Standard"  having  offered  him  one-third 
of  his  income  to  take  charge  of  the  paper. 

It  was  while  editing  the  "Standard  "  that 
Mr.  Carleton  brought  out  his  first  volume  of  early  portrait 
poems,  bearing  all  the  expense  himself,  pub-  of  Mr.  Carleton. 
lishers  having  refused  it.  A  thousand  copies 
were  printed,  most  of  which  the  poet  ped- 
dled out  among  his  friends.  The  book  was 
favorably  noticed  by  the  press  and  gave 
the  author  some  standing.  Soon  after  that 
he  began  writing  poems  for  the  "  Toledo 
Blade,"  receiving  no  compensation.  The 
editor  liked  and  published  them,  but  none 
seemed  to  hit  the  public  taste  until  "  Betsy 
and  I  Are  Out  "  was  printed.    It  was  cop- 


156 


"  A  PIONEER  POET  " 


ied  everywhere,  and  finally  the  editor  of 
"  Harper's  Weekly  "  asked  Mr.  Carleton  to 
send  him  some  verses.  He  wrote  and  sent 
"  Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poorhouse,"  for 
which  he  received  thirty  dollars,  greatly  to 
his  surprise.  It  was  the  first  poem  for  which 
he  had  received  money.  He  continued  to 
r*r/:Cv.        write  for  the  "  Weekly,"  and 


.  In  1880  Mr.  Carleton  mar- 

A  corner  in  Mr.  Carleton 's        .    .        .  1  .  . 


writes  much  and  spends  a  portion  of  each 
year  lecturing  and  reading  from  his  works. 
"  The  First  Settler's  Story"  is  Mr.  Carle- 
ton's  own  favorite  of  all  his  poems. 

"  Betsy  and  I  Are  Out  "  and  "  Over  the 
Hills  to  the  Poorhouse  "  being,  perhaps,  the 
author's  most  celebrated  productions,  it  is 
interesting  to  learn  how  they  were  inspired. 
In  187 1  Mr.  Carleton  was  much  impressed 
by  the  prevalence  of  divorces,  and  often 


soon  the  Harpers  published  a 
volume  of  his  works,  "  Farm 
Ballads. "  "  Farm  Legends, ' ' 
"  Farm  Festivals,"  "  City 
Ballads  "  and  other  volumes 
followed  in  rapid  succession. 


ried  and  moved  to  Brooklyn, 
where   he   still    lives.  He 


"  A  PIONEER  POET  " 


157 


strayed  into  the  court-room  in  Hillsdale  to 
hear  the  testimony  in  various  cases.  He 
saw  and  heard  there  the  domestic  troubles  of 
others,  and  they  gave  him  the  idea  of  the 
former  poem.  The  characters  in  it  repre- 
sent no  one  in  particular,  intended  only  to 
be  typical  of  a  class.  Near  Hillsdale  was 
the  County  Poorhouse,  between  which  and 
the  town  proper  was  a  small  hill.  The  poet 
often  went  to  the  almshouse  to  see  and  talk 
with  the  unfortunate  inmates.  He  was  par- 
ticularly touched  by  the  case  of  an  aged 
couple,  husband  and  wife,  who  had  been 
sent  to  the  institution  by  their  children. 
Their  sad  lot,  of  which,  however,  they  did 
not  complain,  suggested  the  latter  poem. 

Mr.  Carleton's  poetical  works  include 
' 1  Farm  Legends, "  "  Farm  Ballads, "  ' '  Farm 
Festivals,"  "  City  Legends,"  "  City  Festi- 
vals," "  Rhymes  of  Our  Planet,"  etc. 

"  The  Lightning  Rod  Dispenser"  and 
"  The  Christmas  Baby  "  are  selected  for  this 
book  from  "  Farm  Legends,"  with  the  per- 
mission of  the  author  and  publishers.  All 
of  Mr.  Carleton's  works  are  published  by 
Harper  Brothers,  New  York. 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 


Mrs.  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood  was 
born  in  the  little  town  of  Luray,  O.,  on  the 
sixteenth  day  of  December,  1847.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  country  physician,  who  was 
descended  from  a  line  of  Scotch-Irish  bar- 
onets, the  Scott  family.  He  removed  with 
his  young  family  to  Illinois  long  before  the 
prairies  were  drained  and  cultivated.  He  fell 
a  victim  to  the  arduous  duties  of  his  profes- 
sion in  that  new  and  unsettled  country,  and 
died  when  his  daughter  was  ten  years  of  age. 
Her  mother  died  a  year  later. 

Mary  Hartwell  was  always  given  to  story- 
making,  and  even  at  that  early  period  of  her 
life  she  knew  well  what  she  intended  to  do; 
indeed,  she  cannot  remember  a  time  when 
she  did  not  have  a  well  formulated  idea  of 
what  her  great  work  in  life  would  be.  She 
was  going  to  write  stories.  In  fact,  at  that 
age  she  had  already  made  notable  childish 
excursions  into  the  realms  of  literature.  She 
grew  up  in  the  home  of  a  relative,  and  in  the 


1 62       MARY   HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

female  college  at  Granville,  O.,  from  which 
institution  she  was  graduated  in  1868. 

In  1877  Miss  Hartwell  became  the  wife  of 
Mr.  James  S.  Catherwood  and  most  of  her 
best  literary  work  has  been  done  since  then. 
Her  one  notable  production  previous  to  that 
time  was  "  A  Woman  in  Armor,"  published 
in  1875.  Mrs.  Catherwood's  first  great  lit- 
erary success  was  the  production  of  "  The 
Romance  of  Dollard."  Three  years  before 
the  novel  appeared  Mrs.  Catherwood  had 
a  deep  sorrow,  and,  for  a  change  and  diver- 
sion of  mind,  she  went  to  spend  a  part  of 
one  summer  in  Canada  with  the  family  of  a 
friend,  who  was  the  United  States  Consul  at 
Sherbrooke.  While  there  she  made  the  his- 
tory of  the  old  French  regime  a  special 
study,  and  became  deeply  interested  in  the 
romances  of  the  Provinces.  She  read  the 
comprehensive  historical  compilations  of 
Parkman,  and  from  them  she  got  the  inspi- 
ration for  her  story. 

Three  years  later  she  took  the  completed 
"Romance  of  Dollard,"  in  manuscript,  to 
New  York  City.  Her  husband,  with  the 
true  Western  idea  of  business,  urged  her  to 
do  so,  ' '  and  I  wanted  to  go, ' '  said  Mrs. 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD       1 63 

Catherwood.  She  carried  with  her  a  letter 
from  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  who  is  a  friend 
of  her  husband  and  herself,  to  the  editor  of 
"The  Century,"  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gil- 
der. When  she  offered  him  the  novel  Mr. 
Gilder  laughed,  showed  her  the  vast  quanti- 
ties of  accumulated  manuscripts  in  the  of- 
fice, and  said  : 

"You  might  as  well  expect  to  be  struck 
by  lightning  as  to  have  a  long  story  ac- 
cepted here." 

Three  or  four  days  later,  when  the  con- 
tract for  its  publication  was  made,  Mr.  Gil- 
der said  :  "  The  lightning  has  struck." 

Mrs.  Cathervvood's  home  is  in  Hoopeston, 
111.,  a  small  prairie  city  on  a  direct  line 
between  Chicago  and  Indianapolis.  Here 
the  writer  lives  a  busy  life,  for,  besides  her 
literary  work  and  her  home  to  look  after,  she 
is  actively  identified  with  the  affairs  of  the 
church  of  which  she  is  a  member.  She  has 
one  child,  a  daughter.  When  asked  if  she 
had  any  fads  or  pets,  Mrs.  Catherwood  re- 
plied :  "I  have  no  fads  that  I  know  of,  but 
I  have  a  few  pets,  and  chief  among  them  is 
my  little  daughter." 


164      MARY   HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 


Hearth  in  Mrs.  Cath- 
erwood's  home. 


Mrs.  Catherwood  frequently  visits  in  Chi- 
cago, and  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  these 
visits  the  accompanying  sketch  of  her  was 
made.  She  spends  at  least  one  day  of  each 
week  in  the  city  at  work  in  the  great  and 
growing  libraries.  The  Catherwood  home 
in  Hoopeston  is  a  delightful  place  where  the 
neighbors  love  to  gather,  and  one  of  the 
most  charming  spots  in  it  is  the  big  hearth, 
about  the  open  fire  of  which  children  especial- 
ly delight  in  congregating,  to  listen  to  the 
author's  well-told  tales.  A  few  years  ago  Mrs. 
Catherwood  spent  many  months  in  France 
making  an  exhaustive  research  for  material  for 
her  latest  work,  a  life  of  Joan  d' Arc.  Among 
her  better  known  publications  are  :  ' '  Craque- 
o'-Doom,"  "Rocky  Fork,"  "  Old  Caravan 
Days,"  "  The  Secrets  of  Roseladies,"  "  Old 
Kaskaskia,"  "The  Romance  of  Dollard," 
"  The  Lady  of  Fort  St.  John,"  "The  Spirit 
of  an  Illinois  Town,"  "The  Chase  of  St. 
Castin,"  "The  Dogberry  Ranch"  and 
"The  Story  of  Tonty."  The  selection  in 
"Authors'  Readings"  is  republished  by  per- 
mission of  The  Century  Company,  New 
York,  and  the  author. 


"  THE  HOOSIER  POET 


James  Whitcomb  Riley,  popularly  known 
as  the  "  Hoosier  Poet,"  was  born  in  Green- 
field, Ind.,  in  1854.  Greenfield  is  a  little, 
ragged  village — half  country,  half  town.  Mr. 
Riley  was  brought  up  there,  not  living  in 
direct  daily  contact  with  farmers,  but  just 
enough  removed  from  them  to  have  the 
rural  dialect  impress  itself  upon  his  mind. 
His  poetic  instinct  manifested  itself  early. 
When  he  was  little  more  than  a  baby  he 
wrote  his  first  verse — a  four-line  motto  for  a 
comic  valentine  he  had  drawn. 

Until  recent  years  the  poet  cared  little  for 
books,  especially  school  books,  but  he  was 
always  deep  versed  in  Nature's  lore  and  the 
secrets  she  imparts  to  those  only  whom  she 
loves.  He  received  only  the  merest  rudi- 
ments of  a  common-school  education,  for  he 
would  not  study,  preferring  to  gaze  long- 
ingly out  of  the  window  with  thoughts  of 
"  green  fields  and  running  brooks." 


l68  "THE  HOOSIER  POET  " 


To  some  extent  Mr.  Riley  inherits  his 
poetic  ability.  His  father,  Captain  Reuben 
A.  Riley,  a  lawyer,  was  something  of  a  poet, 
many  of  his  productions  having  been  pub- 
lished in  the  local  papers.  An  uncle,  James 
Riley,  also  has  a  considerable  fame  as  a  verse 
writer.  It  was  from  Captain  Lee  O.  Harris, 
his  schoolmaster,  however,  that  Mr.  Riley 


long  walks  together  through  woods  and  fields 
and  "  up  and  down  old  Brandy  wine." 

People  who  have  heard  Mr.  Riley  read 
will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  at  one 
time  he  thought  seriously  of  becoming  an 
actor.  He  had  rare  dramatic  talent  when  a 
boy  and  took  a  leading  part  in  all  local  ama- 
teur performances.  When  he  was  a  mere 
youth  he  made  a  great  "  hit  "  in  a  perform- 


The  old  swimmin 
hole. 


got  the  training  which  has  done 
most  toward  making  him  a  great 
poet.  Mr.  Harris  is  a  poet  of 
merit  and  had  written  good  verse 
before  James  Whitcomb  Riley  was 
born.  He  recognized  the  poetic 
ability  of  his  lesson-hating  pupil 
and  a  mutual  admiration  sprung 
up   between    them.    They  took 


"THE  HOOSIER  POET  "  169 

ance  given  for  the  purpose  of  raising  funds 
to  purchase  a  band-wagon  for  the  Greenfield 
Brass  Band,  the  same  organization  of  which 
he  long  afterwards  wrote  : 

"  And  when  the  boys  'u'd  saranade,  I've  laid  so  still 

in  bed 

I've  even  heerd  the  locus'-blossoms  droppin'  on  the 

shed 

When  '  Lily  Dale,'  er  '  Hazel  Dell,'  had  sobbed 
and  died  away — 

.    .    .    I  want  to  hear  the  old  band  play." 

Captain  Harris  wrote  the  play  and  made 
the  leading  role  expressly  to  fit  the  talent  of 
young  Riley.  The  play  was  produced  five 
nights,  and  more  than  enough  money  was 
cleared  to  purchase  the  band-wagon. 

Mr.  Riley's  father  intended  to  make  a 
lawyer  out  of  him,  but  when  the  lad  found 
that  Political  Economy  and  Blackstone  did 
not  rhyme  he  tired  of  law,  and  one  day  ran 
away  from  home  with  a  travelling  patent 
medicine  aggregation.  He  travelled  thus  for 
a  year,  taking  part  in  the  evening  wagon 
concerts.  Then,  being  a  clever  painter,  he 
went  into  the  sign  painting  business  with 
several  other  young  men.    For  four  years 


170  "THE  HOOSIER  POET  " 

they  travelled  over  the  State,  painting  adver- 
tisements on  fences  and  barns  on  all  roads 
leading  into  the  towns.  Each  of  the  paint- 
ers was  a  musician,  and  they  gave  concerts 
in  the  evenings.  One  whistled  beautifully, 
another  sang,  another  played  a  banjo,  and 
Riley  scurried  with  a  violin  and  guitar  and 
spoke  verses  written  by  himself. 

During  his  sign-painting  career  he 
sometimes  posed  as  "  the  celebrated 
blind  sign-painter."  Pretending  to 
be  stone  blind,  he  bewildered  the 
crowds  which  collected  to  watch 
him  work.  Mr.  Riley  was  contin- 
ually playing  practical  jokes.  Per- 
haps the  most  ludicrous  was  one  he 
played  on  the  Methodist  Church 
congregation  of  his  native  town. 
The  story  as  told  the  writer  by  a 
relative  of  the  poet  is  this  :  The 
church  needed  repairing  badly,  and  a  com- 
mittee went  about  soliciting  aid.  Mr.  Riley, 
who  was  handy  at  any  kind  of  work,  could 
not  help  in  a  financial  way,  but  volunteered 
to  repair  the  church  clock.  The  committee 
consented.    Just  before  the  reopening  of  the 


r 


The  boy  Riley  with 
his  school-master, 
Lee  O.  Harris, 


"  THE  HOOSIER  POET  " 


17I 


church  he  brought  the  clock  back  and  care- 
fully hung  it  in  its  accustomed  place  high 
on  the  wall  over  the  pulpit.  At  eleven 
o'clock,  when  the  minister  was  warming  to 
his  subject,  the  old  clock  began  striking.  It 
struck  fifteen,  twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty, 
sixty,  and  kept  on  striking.  The  minister 
stopped.  The  clock  did  not.  It  was  far 
out  of  reach  and  no  ladder  was  handy.  The 
congregation  had  to  be  dis- 
missed. 

Mr.  Riley's  first  published 
poems  were  written  for  the  lo- 
cal paper,  the  "  Hancock  Dem- 
ocrat." He  stopped  painting 
to  go  to  work  on  the  Anderson  A  sign  painted  by 
(Ind.)  "Democrat,"  for  which  Mr-  Riley- 

paper  he  wrote  all  the  rhymes  the  editor 
would  let  him,  and  did  general  reporting. 
He  made  up  poetic  advertisements  and 
enjoyed  telling  the  news  in  rhyme.  His 
wages  were  poor,  and  he  longed  for  a  wider 
field  and  better  pay.  He  sent  many  poems 
to  the  magazines,  but  all  were  rejected.  His 
friends  told  him  that  his  verses  were  silly, 
and  it  was  to  vindicate  his  contention  that 


172  "THE  HOOSIER  POET  " 


they  were  mistaken  that  he  perpetrated  a 
Poe-poem  fraud  which  he  has  always  deeply 
regretted.  He  studied  the  style  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  and  wrote  an  imitation  poem 
which  he  entitled,  "  Leonainie,"  and  had  it 
published  in  the  Kokomo  (Ind.)  "  Gazette." 
It  was  made  to  appear  that  it  was  an  un- 
published poem  by  Poe,  found  in  an  old 
book.  It  created  a  sensation,  and  many 
wise  literary  people  declared  it  to  be  gen- 
uine. It  soon  became  known  that  Mr.  Riley 
had  forged  it ;  he  was  involved  in  no  end 
of  trouble,  he  lost  his  position 
v  -.tJ\  on  the  "Democrat,"  but  he  had 
^U^M^L&v  proved  that  he  could  write  good 
poetry.  Soon  afterward  he 
wrote  a  Christmas  story  for 
the  Indianapolis  "  Journal," 
which  pleased  the  editor,  and 
he  was  invited  to  become  a 
member  of  the  paper's  staff. 

He  remained  on  the  "Jour- 
nal" for  years  and  for  it  wrote 
his  first  Hoosier  dialect  poems. 
They  were  signed  "  Benj.  F. 
Johnson,  of  Boone."    After  a 


The  Riley  Homestead, 
showing  attic  ' '  where 
the  boys  slept."1 


"THE  HOOSIER  POET  "  I  73 


sufficient  number  had  been  written  they 
were  collected  and  published  in  a  volume 
entitled  "  The  01'  Swimmin'  Hole  an' 
'Leven  More  Poems,"  which  Mr.  Riley 
published  at  his  own  expense.  It  sold  well, 
and  ever  since  he  has  been  deriving  a  large 
and  steadily  increasing  income  from  the 
products  of  his  most  prolific  pen.  For  sev- 
eral years  Mr.  Riley  read  in  public  from 
his  works  and  was  one  of  the  most  successful 
author-readers  in  the  country,  but  he  never 
liked  it  and  had  a  strong  aversion  to  travel, 
so,  early  in  1896,  he  retired  from  the  plat- 
form.   He  lives  in  Indianapolis. 

Following  is  a  list  of  Mr.  Riley's  books 
and  the  popular  poems  they  contain  : 

"  Neighborly  Poems  :  "  with  thirty-six 
poems  in  Hoosier  dialect,  including  The  Old 
Swimmin'  Hole,  When  the  Frost  Is  on  the 
Punkin,  and  Thoughts  fer  the  Discuraged 
Farmer. 

"  Sketches  in  Prose:"  Twelve  stories, 
each  prefaced  by  a  poem,  including  The 
Elf-Child  and  Old-Fashioned  Roses. 

"  Afterwhiles  :  "  Sixty-two  poems  and 
sonnets,    serious,  pathetic,  humorous  and 


174  "THE  HOOSIER  POET  " 


dialect,  including  A  Life  Lesson,  Old  Aunt 
Mary's,  The  Lost  Kiss,  The  Beautiful  City, 
The  South  Wind  and  the  Sun,  When  Bessie 
Died,  Knee  Deep  in  June,  A  Liz-Town  Hu- 
morist, Griggsby  Station,  No  thin'  to  Say, 
etc. 

"  Pipes  o'  Pan  :  "  Five  sketches  and  fifty 
poems,  including  An  Old  Sweetheart.  This 
poem  is  also  published  separately  in  large 
table-book  size,  profusely  illustrated. 

"  Rhymes  of  Childhood  :  "  One  hundred 
and  two  dialect  and  serious  poems. 

"Old-Fashioned  Roses:  "  Sixty-one  se- 
lected poems,  published  in  England. 

"  The  Flying  Islands  of  the  Night :  "  A 
weird  and  grotesque  drama  in  verse. 

"  Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks:  " 
One  hundred  and  two  poems  and  sonnets, 
dialect,  humorous,  and  serious,  containing  A 
Dream  of  Autumn,  On  the  Banks  o'  Deer 
Crick,  A  Country  Pathway,  Dot  Leedle 
Boy,  etc. 

"  Armazindy  :  "  Containing  some  of  Mr. 
Riley's  best  dialect  and  serious  work,  includ- 
ing Armazindy  and  the  famous  Poe  Poem. 

"Poems  Here  at  Home:"  Containing 
The  Absence  of  Little  Wesley,  Down  to  the 


"THE  HOOSIER   POET  '* 


175 


Capital,  The  Old  Band,  The  Raggedy  Man, 
Little  Cousin  Jasper,  Bereaved,  and  the 
well-known  The  Old  Man  and  Jim,  etc. 

"A  Child  World"  is  the  last  of  Mr. 
Riley's  books. 

All  of  the  above  books,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "  Poems  Here  at  Home,"  published 
by  the  Century  Company,  New  York,  and 
"  Old  -  Fashioned  Roses,"  by  Longmans, 
Green,  &  Company,  London,  are  published 
by  The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,  Indian- 
apolis and  Kansas  City,  U.  S,  A. 


J3 


1  O^liRi^U 


OPIE  POPE  READ 


When  Opie  Pope  Read  was  asked,  twelve 
years  ago,  to  write  his  autobiography,  he 
gave  the  following  characteristic  account  of 
his  life  up  to  that  time  : 

"  There  are  very  few  facts  in  connection 
with  my  life.  I  have  been  but  a  loitering 
gleaner  in  the  harvest-field  of  fact.  I  was 
born  in  Nashville,  Tenn.  I  am  thirty-three 
years  of  age,  and  am  reasonably  honest  and 
presumably  religious.  I  began  my  down- 
ward course  on  the  '  Patriot,'  a  small  paper 
that  hobbled  on  three  legs  in  Franklin,  Ky. 
The  proprietors  were  much  pleased  with  my 
work,  for  I  pulled  a  hand-press  with  a  strong 
arm,  but  they  always  seemed  to  pay  me  re- 
luctantly. In  1877  I  edited  the  Bowling 
Green  (Ky.)  1  Pantograph,'  and  I  have  no 
cause  to  believe  that  anyone  shed  a  tear 
when — by  request — I  resigned  my  position. 
In  1878  I  took  the  position  of  city  editor 
of  the  Little  Rock  (Ark.)  <  Gazette,'  and 


l8o  OPIE  POPE  READ 

continued  to  write  watered  truth  for  that 
paper  until  1881,  when  I  accepted  a  posi- 
tion on  the  Cleveland  (O.)  '  Leader.'  I  did 
not  remain  long  on  the  '  Leader. '  I  had 
been  engaged  to  do  literary  work,  but  Mr. 
Cowles,  the  editor,  soon  gave  me  instructions 
that  fell  heavily  upon  my  ears.  He  wanted 
me  to  compile  statistics — wanted  a  tabulated 
statement  of  the  lives  that  had  been  lost  on 
Lake  Erie  from  the  time  of  Perry's  victory 
down  to  the  dog-days  of  1879.  I  under- 
took this  work,  but  somehow  it  did  not 
please  him.  He  said  that  I  had  thrown  un- 
wonted life  into  my  figures,  and  that  my  de- 
ductions were  endowed  with  unwarranted 
spirit.  I  seized  a  broom,  swept  my  labor 
out  of  the  Western  Reserve,  and  returned  to 
Arkansas.  In  June,  1882,  Mr.  P.  D.  Ben- 
ham  and  I  began  the  publication  of  the 
'  Arkansaw  Traveller,'  a  paper  which  goes 
all  over  the  country,  and  which  at  one  time, 
we  thought,  would  go  to  the  deuce." 

Mr.  Read  moved  the  "  Arkansaw  Travel- 
ler "  from  Little  Rock  to  Chicago  in  1887. 
He  has  lived  in  Chicago  ever  since,  writing 
profusely  for  literary  syndicates  and  produc- 


OPIE  POPE  READ 


181 


ing  several  novels.  He  often  reads  selec- 
tions from  his  writings  in  public.  He  has 
the  reputation  of  being  the  best  story-teller  in 
the  Chicago  Press  Club,  and  spends  much  of 
his  time  at  the  club-house  keeping  up  that 
reputation.  He  has  no  regard  for  facts,  but 
has  a  natural  dramatic  gift.  He  is  about  six 
feet  and  four  inches  tall,  has  broad  shoulders 
and  a  leonine  front. 

Opie  Read  had  many  hard  struggles  when  a 
young  man,  which  he  does 
not  mention  in  his  auto- 
biography. At  one  time 
he  and  a  partner  published 
the  "Prairie  Flower,"  at 
Carlyle,  Kan.  It  did  not 
pay.  The  partners  were 
finally  requested  to  leave  their  hotel  on 
account  of  their  inability  to  pay  their  bills. 
Having  no  place  to  sleep,  they  made  good 
use  of  their  annual  editorial  railway  passes. 
Boarding  a  train  that  went  through  Carlyle 
in  the  evening,  they  curled  up  on  the  seats  of 
a  warm  car  and  slept,  transferring  to  a  train 
that  would  bring  them  back  to  their  town 
early  the  next  morning.    Thus  one  cold 


Opie  Read  telling 
stories  in  the 
Chicago 
Press 
Club. 


l82 


OPIE  POPE  READ 


winter  is  said  to  have  worn  away.  After  an 
unsuccessful  early  newspaper  venture  in 
Nashville,  Tenn.,  Mr.  Read  began  a  long 
tramp  overland,  covering,  it  is  estimated, 
nearly  four  hundred  miles.  The  hardships 
he  endured  during  that  forced  tramp  fur- 
nished him  with  a  fund  of  ideas  for  his  later 
literary  work. 

Among  his  more  important  books  are  : 
"A  Kentucky  Colonel,"  "  Emmett  Bon- 
lore,"  "A  Tennessee  Judge,"  "  On  the  Su- 
wanee  River,"  and  "  The  Jucklins." 

The  story  "A  Backwoods  Sunday"  is 
reprinted  in  "  Authors'  Readings,"  from  an 
early  book  of  short  stories,  with  permission 
from  the  author. 


"  THE  POET  OF  PASSION" 


Mrs.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  was  born 
in  Johnstown  Centre,  Wis.  Her  parents 
were  emigrants  from  Vermont  to  Wisconsin 
in  the  early  days  of  that  State.  Her  father, 
who  was  a  descendant  from  Ethan  Allen,  was 
in  his  younger  days  a  teacher  of  the  violin. 
In  Wisconsin  he  became  a  farmer,  and  it  was 
upon  a  farm  that  the  first  years  of  Mrs. 
Wilcox  were  spent.  Soon  after  she  was 
born  the  family  moved  to  a  farm  in  the  town 
of  Westport,  Wis.,  a  few  miles  from  Madi- 
son, in  the  famous  "  four-lakes  district."  It 
was  amid  the  rural  scenes  of  this  most  beau- 
tiful country  that  she  caught  the  first  inspira- 
tion of  poetry. 

Her  early  education  was  somewhat  limited. 
She  attended  the  public  school  in  the  village 
of  Windsor.  Having  a  decided  tendency 
toward  story-writing  and  rhyming  she  was 
always  called  upon  to  furnish  the  fiction  and 
verse  for  the  school  magazine.    She  seems 


1 86  "  THE  POET  OF  PASSION" 


to  have  written  verses  from  the  time  she  first 
learned  to  spell.  She  was  but  a  little  more 
than  eight  years  of  age  when  she  wrote,  or, 
rather,  printed,  a  most  ingenious  novel,  the 
original  manuscript  of  which  she  still  has  in 
her  possession.  The  early  tendency  of  the 
poet  to  write  of  love  and  passion  is  shown 
by  it,  for  innumerable  love-affairs,  always 
culminating  in  weddings,  are  scattered 
throughout  the  little  volume.  The  hero  be- 
comes a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  which  the 
youthful  country  author  looked  upon  as  the 
highest  earthly  position  of  honor.  The  title 
page  reads  : 

"  Minnie  Tighthand  and  Mrs.  Dunley,  an 
Eloquent  Novel  Written  by  Miss  Ella 
Wheeler." 

There  is  a  preface  reading  as  follows  : 

' '  The  following  novel  is  a  true  story.  I 


suppose  the  reader 
A  -  will  doubt  it,  but 
it  is  true.    It  is  a 


v 


"  THE  POET  OF  PASSION  "  187 

scene  that  I  witnessed  when  living  in  Eng- 
land, and  after  I  came  to  America  I  pub- 
lished it.    The  reader  may  believe  it  now." 

At  that  time  the  girl  had  never  been 
twenty-five  miles  away  from  home,  and  Mrs. 
Wilcox  wonders  now  how  she  ever  con- 
ceived such  a  deception.  Nearly  every 
chapter  of  the  novel  is  begun  with  an  origi- 
nal verse.    The  following  is  a  sample  : 

"  A  head  covered  with  pretty  curls, 
Face  white  as  the  snow. 
Her  teeth  look  like  handsome  pearls,. 
She's  tall  and  merry  to  ! " 

Mrs.  Wilcox  was  then,  as  she  has  always 
been  since,  an  indefatigable  worker,  often 
producing  several  short  poems  in  one  day. 
She  had  a  great  desire  to  see  some  of  her 
productions  in  print,  and  set  about,  without 
her  parents'  knowledge,  to  have  them  pub- 
lished. Finally,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  one 
of  her  articles  was  published  in  the  New 
York  "  Mercury."  The  delighted  girl  sent 
for  a  large  number  of  the  issue  containing  it, 
and  the  arrival  of  the  bundle  was  the  first  in- 
timation her  parents  had  that  their  child 


1 88  "  THE  POET  OF  PASSION" 

had  "gone  into  print."  When  she  was 
sixteen  years  old  "The  Chimney  Corner" 
printed  one  of  her  productions  and  paid  her 
for  it.  It  was  the  first  money  she  had  ever 
earned.  Soon  after  she  became  a  paid  con- 
tributor to  "Harper's  Bazar,"  "Harper's 
Weekly,"  "The  Saturday  Evening  Post," 
of  Philadelphia,  Leslie's  periodicals  and 
many  other  publications. 

The  refusal  of  her  works  by  editors  never 
discouraged  her.  As  soon  as  a  poem  or  arti- 
cle was  returned  by  one  she  sent  it  to  an- 
other. She  had  an  elaborate  system  of  book- 
keeping, keeping  scores  of  productions  in  the 
mails  all  the  time.  She  was  particularly 
anxious  to  have  an  article  published  in  the 
"  Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  placed  that  maga- 
zine at  the  top  of  her  list.  Finally,  after 
five  years  of  disappointment,  she  had  a  poem 
accepted,  and  waited  three  years  before  see- 
ing it  published.  Then  she  got  five  dollars 
for  it.  But  it  was  not  many  years  till  she 
found  a  ready  market  for  all  she  produced. 
Besides  her  collections  of  poems  she  has  pub- 
lished several  novels  and  has  written  much 
for   the  newspaper  syndicates.     Her  first 


"THE  POET  OF  PASSION  1 89 

volume,  "  Drops  of  Water,"  was  published 
in  1872,  and  is  a  collection  of  verses  on  the 
subject  of  total  abstinence. 

"Solitude,"  which  is,  perhaps,  her  most 
famous  poem,  was  inspired  one  day  when 
the  poet,  then  a  young  lady,  was  on  her 
way  from  her  Westport  home  to  Madison,  to 
attend  a  public  reception  at  the  Wisconsin 
Gubernatorial  mansion.  On  the  train  she 
met  a  friend,  a  woman  in  widow's  weeds, 
who  had  recently  been  bereaved.  She  was 
deeply  touched  by  the  look  of  sorrow  in  her 
face,  and,  while  preparing  for  the  reception 
that  evening,  the  first  two  lines  of  the  poem, 

"  Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you, 
Weep,  and  you  weep  alone," 

flashed  into  her  mind.    Two  more  lines, 

"  For  the  sad  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth 
But  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own," 

sung  themselves  into  her  brain  while  driving 
to  the  Governor's  residence.  She  completed 
the  poem  the  following  morning. 

In  1884  Miss  Wheeler  was  married  to  Mr. 
Robert  M.  Wilcox,  and  her  home  since  then 


I90  i(  THE  POET  OF  PASSION  " 

has  been  in  the  East.  She  lives  in  New 
York  City  in  the  winter,  and  in  her  sum- 
mer home  at  Short  Beach,  Conn.,  during 
the  hot  months.  She  has  given  her  seaside 
cottage  a  poetic  name — "  The  Bungalow." 
The  poet  of  passion  has  many  fads,  chief 
among  them  being  her  gowns,  which  she  de- 
signs herself.  She  has  an  elaborate  and 
costly  collection  of  girdles,  and  is  always 
on  the  lookout  for  unique  and  handsome  ones 
to  add  to  it.  Her  fad  in  animals  is  fine  Per- 
sian cats,  which  she  trains  to  perform. 

Among  Ella   Wheeler   Wilcox's  better 
known   books  are  "  Maurine,  and  Other 
Poems,"  which  was  first  published  in  1875, 
"  Poems  of  Passion,"  ' i  Poems  of  Pleasure," 
"Mai  Moulee,"  a  novel,  "Men,  Women, 
and  Emotions  "  and  "  Custer  and  Other 
Poems."    The  three  poems,  "  Solitude  " 
and  "  The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod,"  from 
"  Poems  of  Passion,"  and  "  Which  Are 
You  ?  "  from  "  Custer  and  Other  Poems," 
all  copyrighted,  are  reproduced  in  "  Au- 
thors' Readings"  by  permission  from 
both  the  author  and  the  publishers,  W. 
B.  Conkey  Company,  Chicago. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox's 
trained  cat. 


CHARLES  B.  LEWIS 


M.  Quad,  whose  real  name  is  Charles  B. 
Lewis,  was  born  on  the  fifteenth  day  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1 844,  in  the  little  town  of  Liverpool,  O. 
Where  he  was  born  and  where  he  spent  his 
childhood  are  of  minor  consequence,  how- 
ever, since  his  career  did  not  begin  until  he 
was  blown  up  twenty-eight  years  ago  on  a 
racing  Ohio  River  steamboat.  He  is,  per- 
haps, the  solitary  example  of  a  man  being 
lifted  into  fame  by  a  boiler  explosion. 

The  accident  happened  in  the  spring  of 
1869.  Mr.  Lewis,  who  had  served  through 
the  Civil  War,  and  fought  Indians  for  two 
years  with  General  Custer,  had  received  a 
letter  from  the  editor  of  the  May vi lie  (Ky.) 
''Bulletin,"  asking  him  to  come  and  work 
on  his  paper.  Like  several  other  American 
humorists,  Mr.  Lewis  had  learned  the  print- 
er's trade  at  an  early  age.  He  started  from 
Lansing,  Mich.,  where  he  was  engaged  as  a 
compositor,  press-hand,  local  reporter  and 


194  CHARLES  B.  LEWIS 

general  man  about  a  small  newspaper  office. 
He  went  by  way  of  Detroit  and  took  the 
steamer  from  Cincinnati.  A  strange  thing- 
happened  which  the  humorist  has  never  been 
able  to  account  for.  His  mind  became  a  to- 
tal blank  from  the  time  he  left  Detroit.  It 
transpired  later  that  while  he  was  in  Cincin- 
nati he  wrote  and  posted  a  letter  to  his  wife, 
but  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  done  so. 
He  has  not  the  slightest  remembrance  of 
having  boarded  the  steamer.  Neither  does 
he  remember  anything  about  the  explosion, 
but  there  certainly  was  one — a  terrific  one, 
too — and  Mr.  Lewis,  when  picked  up  from 
the  shore,  terribly  scalded  and  bruised,  was 
thought  to  be  dead.  He  was  taken  to  a 
hospital  and  there,  sixteen  days  from  the  time 
he  left  Detroit,  he  regained  consciousness. 

He  went  back  to  Michigan  and  resumed 
his  work  of  setting  type  on  the  Pontiac 
"  Jacksonian."  One  day  the  office  ran 
short  of  "miscellaneous"  matter,  and  Mr. 
Lewis,  without  copy,  set  up  from  his  case 
the  story  of  his  Ohio  River  experience,  de- 
scribing his  sensations  while  "  progressing 
sideways  through  the  air,"  as  he  put  it. 


CHARLES  B.  LEWIS 


195 


The  article  was  headed  "  How  It  Feels  to 
Be  Blown  Up,"  and  was  signed  M.  Quad. 
When  asked  recently  why  he  selected  that 
nom  de  plume  Mr.  Lewis  said  : 

"  Oh,  it  was  the  first  thing  that  popped 
into  my  brain.  It  was  natural  for  me,  being 
a  compositor,  to  use  such  a  name.  An  em 
quad,  you  know,  is  the  metal  space  a 
printer  puts  between  the  period  and 
the  first  letter  of  the  following  word. 
I  might  just  as  well  have  signed  myself 
Italics,  Roman,  Small  Caps,  or  any 
other  printer's  term,  but  M.  Quad  struck 
me  first  and  has  stuck  by  me  ever  since." 

That  article  was  so  filled  with  genuine 
humor  that  it  was  copied  far  and  wide.  It 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  editor  of  the 
Detroit  "  Free  Press,"  at  that  time  a  paper 
of  none  but  local  fame,  who  soon  engaged 
the  compositor  as  a  reporter.  His  connec- 
tion with  the  "  Free  Press  "  lasted  twenty- 
two  years,  and  during  that  time  he  wrote 
the  greater  part  of  the  many  humorous 
and  pathetic  stories  which  gave  that  paper 
a  great  circulation  in  this  and  other  coun- 
tries.   He  went  to  New  York  in  1891  to 


196 


CHARLES  B.  LEWIS 


enter  a  broader  field  for  observation  and 
literary  labor.  He  has  worked  almost  con- 
tinuously ever  since  for  the  literary  syndi- 
cates, producing  an  astounding  amount  of 
matter.    He  lives  in  Brooklyn. 

M.  Quad's  greatest  horror  has  always  been 
that  readers  would  tire  of  his  types.  That 
accounts  for  the  succession  of  unique  and 
totally  dissimilar  characters  which  he  has  cre- 
ated.   When  he  had  the  "  Lime 
Kiln  Club"  at  the  height  of  its 
popularity  he  dropped  it  to  delve 
in  a  fresh  field.     "  His  Honor," 
<  <  Bi jah, "    "  Brother   Gardner, ' ' 
"Trustee  Pullback,"  "Mr.  and 
v  Mrs.  Bowser,"  "Carl  Dunder," 
and  many  more  of  his  creations 

Quad  among 

he  sailors.  are  as  real  to  millions  oi  readers  as 

any  characters  in  history.  With 
the  possible  exception  of  the  "  Arizona  Kick- 
er," there  is  not  a  trace  of  ill-nature  in  all  of 
his  writings.  Governor  Irwin,  of  Arizona, 
once  said  that  half  the  readers  of  the  so-called 
"  extracts  from  the  '  Kicker  '  "  believe  them 
to  be  real,  and  that  they  have  injured  the 
country  more  than  the  wild  Indians  have. 
M.  Quad  is  as  eccentric  as  he  is  humorous. 


CHARLES  B.  LEWIS 


197 


His  personal  appearance,  his  manner,  even 
the  tones  of  his  voice,  are  peculiar.  He  is  a 
man  of  fads  and  hobbies,  having  tried  and 
tired  of  innumerable  things  seemingly  ridicu- 
lous for  a  plodding  journalist.  During  recent 
years  his  chief  delight  has  been  to  do  a  sort 
of  literary  missionary  work  among  sailors. 
Nearly  every  pleasant  day,  once  a  week  at 
least,  he  may  be  seen  about  the  wharves  of 
New  York  Harbor,  carrying  on  his  arm  a 
basket  filled  with  books  of  fiction,  which  he 
distributes  free  among  the  sailors.  He  has 
made  a  careful  study  of  the  subject  and  says 
that  of  all  stories  the  sailors  enjoy  most  the 
sea-tales  of  W.  Clark  Russell.  Mr.  Lewis 
spends  much  of  his  time  studying  human 
nature  in  the  slums  of  the  great  East  Side  of 
New  York  City,  and  makes  frequent  trips  to 
Thompson  Street  to  get  inspiration  for  his 
negro  stories.  He  likes  to  talk  with  the  col- 
ored people  about  hoodoos.  Another  of  his 
delights  is  to  get  on  a  street-car  and  ride 
until  he  gets  tired,  without  paying  the  slight- 
est attention  to  where  the  car  is  taking  him. 
M.  Quad's  four  published  books  are:  "Quad's 
Odds,"  "  Sawed-Off  Sketches,"  "  The  Lime 
Kiln  Club,"  and  "  Field,  Fort,  and  Fleet," 


"  THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE ' 


The  little  town  of  Shirley,  Me.,  was  the 
birthplace  of  Edgar  William  Nye.  He  was 
born  on  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  August,  1850, 
but  did  not  live  long  in  Maine.  "When 
only  two  years  of  age,"  he  wrote  in  his  au- 
tobiography, "  I  girded  up  my  loins,  and 
without  other  luggage,  travelled  westerly, 
taking  with  me  my  parents,  who  pleaded  so 
hard  to  go  that  I  could  not  well  refuse 
them." 

The  family  went  to  Northern  Wisconsin, 
where,  on  a  farm  on  the  banks  of  the  St. 
Croix  River,  Mr.  Nye  grew  to  manhood. 
Speaking  of  his  childhood,  he  said  :  "  There 
is  nothing  in  particular,  perhaps,  to  distin- 
guish my  youth  from  that  of  other  eminent 
men.  I  did  not  study  Greek  grammar  by 
the  light  of  a  pine-knot  when  I  was  a  child. 
I  did  not  think  about  it." 

Mr.  Nye  received  an  academic  education 
at  River  Falls,  Wis.,  and  studied  law  in  that 


202  "THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE" 


city.  He  did  not,  however,  apply  for  ad- 
mission to  the  bar.  He  went  to  Wyoming 
Territory  in  1876,  where  he  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  and  practiced  law  for  several 
years  in  Laramie  City,  but,  according  to  his 
account  he  managed  to  keep  the  matter  very 
quiet,  so  that  only  a  few  people  ever  knew 
much  about  it.  He  was  elected  to  the  office 
of  Justice  of  the  Peace.  Having  much  time 
at  his  disposal  and  possessing  a  "consider- 
able assortment  of  long  words,  which  he  had 
thought  out  at  leisure  moments,"  he  began 
writing  Sunday  letters  for  the  Cheyenne 
"  Sun  "  at  a  dollar  a  column.  Thus  began 
his  career  as  a  humorous  writer. 


"  My  revenue  from  those  letters,"  he  said, 
"  which  aggregated  as  much  as  sixty  dollars 


Bill  Nye's  home  at  Asheville,  iv.  C. 


"THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE"  203 

He  soon  accepted  a  position  on  the  Lar- 
amie City  "Sentinel."  Of  the  editor  of 
that  paper  he  wrote  later :  "  He  was 
warm-hearted  and  generous  to  a  fault.  He 
was  more  generous  to  a  fault  than  to  any- 
thing else — more  especially  his  own  faults. 
He  gave  me  twelve  dollars  a  week  to  edit 
the  paper  —  local,  telegraph,  selections, 
religious,  sporting,  political,  fashions,  and 
obituary.  He  said  twelve  dollars  was  too 
much,  but  if  I  would  jerk  the  press  oc- 
casionally and  take  care  of  his  children  he 
would  try  to  stand  it." 

Mr.  Nye  left  the  "  Sentinel"  to  found  a 
paper  which  he  named  the  "  Boomerang," 
after  his  favorite  mule,  which  he  called  Boom- 
erang, because  he  never  knew  where  it  would 
strike.  The  office  was  over  a  livery  stable  in 
which  the  mule  was  kept,  and  on  the  door 
Nye  put  this  sign  :  "  Persons  wishing  to  see 
the  editor  will  please  twist  the  tail  of  the 
white  mule  and  take  the  elevator. ' '  From  that 
time  Bill  Nye's  fame  dates.  The  "  Boomer- 
ang ' '  was  quoted  all  over  the  country  and 
abroad,  but  it  was  not  a  financial  success. 
Mr.  Nye  was  one  of  the  prominent  citizens 


204  "THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE  " 


of  Laramie  City,  and  after  serving  his  term 
as  Justice  of  the  Peace,  held  the  offices  of 
United  States  Commissioner,  Superintendent 
of  Public  Schools,  and  Member  of  the  City 
Council. 

He  was  subsequently  Postmaster,  also,  and 
his  humorous  letter  of  acceptance,  written  to 
the  President,  was  given  out  for  publication 
in  Washington,  and  was  laughed  over  through- 
out the  country.  He  gave  it  as  his  opinion 
that  his  selection  for  the  office  was  a  triumph 
of  eternal  right  over  error  and  wrong.  Con- 
tinuing, he  said  :  "  It  is  one  of  the  epochs, 
I  may  say,  in  the  nation's  onward  march 
toward  political  purity  and  perfection.  I 
don't  know  when  I  have  noticed  any  stride 
in  affairs  of  State  which  has  so  thoroughly 
impressed  me  with  its  wisdom."  He  resigned 
before  his  term  of  office  expired  and  his 
letter  of  resignation  to  the  President  was 
equally  humorous  and  was  likewise  given 
out  for  publication.  He  told  the  President 
that  he  had  left  the  key  to  the  office  in  the 
wood-shed,  and  that  the  read  postal  cards 
had  been  carefully  pigeon-holed  separately 
from  the  unread  ones.    Bill  Nye  in  those 


te  THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE"  205 

days  wore  a  full  beard  and  did  not  much 
resemble  Bill  Nye  as  the  public  remembers 
him.  He  was  six  feet  tall,  and  during  most 
of  his  life  was  very  slender,  but  in  the  last 
few  years  before  his  death  he  became  quite 
portly. 

After  abandoning  the  "  Boomerang"  he 
removed  to  Hudson,  Wis.,  where  he  lived 
for  a  number  of  years  and  broadened  his 
field  by  contributing  to  the  Chicago  "  Daily 
News,"  "Puck"  and  other  papers,  and  col- 
lecting and  publishing  in  book  form  the 
better  articles  he  had  written  for  the 
"  Boomerang."  His  first  book  was  "  Forty 
Lies  and  Other  Liars."  Like  Eugene  Field 
and  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  he  had  a  knack 
for  sketching,  and  sometimes  illustrated,  in  a 
crude  way,  his  own  works. 

The  popularity  of  Mr.  Nye's  writings 
grew  rapidly  and  his  services  were  accord- 
ingly much  sought  after.  The  New  York 
"World"  secured  them  in  1886,  and  he 
wrote  a  weekly  article  for  that  paper  until  a 
few  months  before  his  death.  This  article 
was  syndicated  also  and  published  in  several 
hundreds  of  newspapers   throughout  the 


206  "THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE  " 


A  pen  drawing 
of  Mr.  Nye 
and  his  son 
by  himself. 


United  States.  The  returns  from  the  sales 
of  these  articles,  from  his  books,  and  from 
his  annual  lecture  tours  made  him  a  wealthy 
man.  In  his  lectures  the  effect  of  his  odd 
and  original  remarks  was  much  heightened 
by  his  droll  manner.  He  had  no  subject. 
When  asked  by  lecture  committees  what  he 
was  going  to  talk  about  he  telegraphed  back 
that  "he  would  talk  about  an  hour."  One 
night  in  Chicago  as  he  stepped  out  to  the 
foot-lights,  he  said  :  "I  have  been  prevailed 
upon  to  change  the  program  to-night.  I 
have  given  the  same  program  in  Chicago 
so  many  times  that  people  have  grown  tired 
of  it,  so  this  evening  we  have  decided  upon 
a  complete  change.  If  you  will  look  at  your 
programs  you  will  notice  that  they  are 
pink.    Last  year  they  were  blue." 

Mr.  Nye  had  three  homes,  the  old  one  at 
Hudson,  Wis. ;  one  on  Staten  Island,  N.  Y. ; 
and  another,  a  grand  one,  near  Asheville, 
N.  C.  In  the  last  he  died  on  the  twenty- 
second  day  of  February,  1896.  He  left  a 
wife  and  four  children. 

A  genial,  gentle-mannered  man  was  Bill 
Nye.    Only  once  has  the  writer  heard  of  his 


"THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE'  207 


temper  being  ruffled.  He  was  lecturing 
with  James  Whitcomb  Riley  in  the  South. 
They  were  both  tired  and  not  at  all  in  a 
pleasant  humor  when  they  entered  the  lead- 
ing hotel  in  a  small  town.  An  officious 
clerk  did  not  notice  them  as  they  came  in, 
did  not  see  that  their  baggage  was  taken  or 
invite  them  to  register.  He  was  too  busy 
talking  politics.  He  had  reached  the  climax 
of  an  oratorical  outburst  when  Bill 
Nye,  who  had  stood  it  as  long  as  he 
could,  said,  in  his  droll  way:  "  Say, 
do  you  know  that  you  remind  me 
of  Clay  ?  "  "  Clay, ' '  exclaimed  the 
flattered  clerk  as  he  turned  around, 
« '  the  great  Henry  Clay  ?  "  "  No, ' ' 
replied  the  humorist ;  "  clay,  just 
common  clay.  The  kind  they  make 
sewer-pipe  of." 

Mr.  Nye  was  once  caught  in  a  terrific 
cyclone  in  which  he  had  a  leg  broken  and 
was  otherwise  seriously  injured.  In  writing 
to  a  friend  about  the  accident,  he  said  :  "I 
cannot  for  the  life  of  me  tell  how  it  happened, 
but  I  think  I  must  have  slipped  on  a  peel  of 
thunder.  People  can't  be  too  careful  how 
they  peel  their  thunder  and  leave  it  lying 
around  on  the  sidewalk. 1 ' 


You  remind  me 
of  Clay. 


208  "  THE  WIT  OF  LARAMIE  " 


The  accompanying  full-page  drawing  of 
Mr.  Nye  is  from  a  sketch  made  from  life  in 
Chicago.  The  inscription  "  Made  by  Art 
Young  in  an  unguarded  moment  and  ap- 
proved this  date  by  me,"  is  characteristic 
of  the  man.  The  selections,  "  How  to 
Hunt  the  Fox"  and  "A  Blasted  Snore," 
are  taken,  with  permission  from  both  author 
and  publisher,  from  "  Wit  and  Humor,"  by 
Bill  Nye  and  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  The 
book  is  copyrighted  and  published  by  F. 
Tennyson  Neely,  New  York  City. 

Mr.  Nye's  other  published  works  are : 
"  A  Comic  History  of  the  United  States," 
"  A  Comic  History  of  England,"  and  "  A 
Guest  at  the  Ludlow." 


THE  "  VERITIST  " 


Hamlin  Garland,  like  his  works,  is  of 
the  Western  farm.  He  is  one  of  the  farmers, 
and  is  proud  of  it.  He  was  born  in  Septem- 
ber, i860,  on  a  farm  near  the  little  village 
of  West  Salem,  Wis.  It  was  in  a  picturesque 
valley,  or  coule,  which  Mr.  Gar- 


When  he  was  ten  years  of  age  /»  the  home  couii. 
the  family  moved  to  Osage, 
Iowa,  on  to  a  farm  with  which  the  author's 
most  vivid  recollections  are  associated. 
Eleven  years  later  his  father  went  to  Dakota, 
leaving  him  alone  on  the  Iowa  farm  to  work 
it.  He  did  all  of  the  work  alone  that  sea- 
son. Help  was  scarce.  Even  at  that  annual 
farm  crisis,  "  harvest  time,"  no  man  could 
be  found  to  help  him.  The  grain  was  un- 
usually heavy,  and  a  great  amount  of  it  had 


land  speaks  of  now  as  the 
"home"  coule.  His  boyhood 
experience  was  the  hard  one  oi 
the  ordinary  poor  farmer's  son. 


212 


THE   "  VERITIST  99 


been  grown.  Young  Garland  harvested 
every  stalk  of  it,  cutting  all  day  long,  bind- 
ing and  stacking  it  by  moon  and  star  light. 
The  hardships  of  the  farmer  were  thoroughly 
impressed  upon  him. 

During  the  years  he  lived  on  the  Iowa 
farm,  he  had  managed  to  complete  a  course 
of  study  in  the  Cedar  Valley  Seminary,  and 
his  brain  had  been  fired  with  a  longing  for 
greater  knowledge  and  travel.  The  father 
was  willing,  and  gave  him  thirty  dollars  for 
his  season's  labor.  It  was  all  Hamlin 
asked  for.  With  that  amount  of  money  he 
started  out  into  the  world.  He  went  to 
Chicago,  but  the  size  of  the  city  frightened 
him,  and  he  made  his  way  gradually  to  Bos- 
ton. In  Boston  he  made  a  poor  living  as 
a  tutor  of  private  classes,  and  he  added  to 
his  fund  of  information  by  reading  in  the 
Public  Library.  A  little  later  he  worked  his 
way  back  to  the  West,  taught  school  in  Illi- 
nois a  few  months,  and  then  went  to  Da- 
kota to  plunge  into  the  midst  of  the  memor- 
able land  boom  of  1883.  He  established 
himself  on  a  "  claim,"  which  he  subse- 
quently sold  for  two  hundred  dollars,  and 


THE   "  VERITIST  " 


213 


started  back  to  Boston  to  pursue  his  teach- 
ing and  reading. 

At  that  time  he  had  no  idea  of  becoming 
a  writer  of  stories,  and  as  to  becoming  a 
novelist,  that  was  not  even  one  of  his  ambi- 
tions.    But  in   1884  he  wrote  a  homely 
sketch  about  corn-husking,  describing  it  just 
as  he  had  seen  it  and  done  it  hundreds  of 
times  on  the  farm.     He  sent  it  to  the  "  Lit- 
erary World,"  a  New  York  publication.  It 
was  published,  and  the  editor 
wrote   an   encouraging  letter 
asking  for  more  farm  sketches 
written  in  the  same  style.  He 
even  promised  to  pay  for  them. 
That  promise  is  all  Mr.  Garland 

£        .  .  ,        ,  ivir.  Liar  tana- s 

ever  got  for  the  articles,  but        ur.  , 

o  '  H  isconsin  home. 

they  opened  the  way  to  fame. 
He  wrote  a  series  of  sketches  to  follow  that  on 
corn-husking,  on  various  topics,  harvesting, 
threshing,  etc.  Soon  he  branched  out  by 
sending  a  long  poem  to  "Harper's  Weekly." 
It  was  published,  and  the  author  was  paid 
twenty  dollars  for  it.  It  was  then,  Mr.  Gar- 
land says,  that  he  first  realized  that  his  lit- 
erary efforts  really  had  a  commercial  value. 


214 


THE   "  VERITIST  " 


He  immediately  set  to  work  earnestly,  and 
between  1884  and  1887  produced  a  pro- 
digious amount  of  sketches  and  short  stories. 
They  were  in  demand  and  he  prospered. 

In  1887  he  returned  to  the  old  farm  in 
Iowa  for  a  visit,  and  while  there  he  first 
conceived  the  idea  of  writing  a  novel.  As 
he  watched  the  doings  of  the  farm-folk 
about  him,  as  he  learned  of 
the  ups  and  downs  of  his  for- 
mer neighbors,  of  the  wander- 
ings of  his  boyhood  play- 
mates, he  realized  that  there 
is  true  romance  in  the  lives 
of  the  plain  Western  farmers. 
He  felt  that  he  could  write  of 
them  just  as  they  were.  No 
author  ever  had  more  faith  in 
himself  than  Hamlin  Garland.  He  had  found 
the  field  in  which  he  believed  that  he  was 
born  to  work.  It  was  a  field  of  great  richness, 
and  one  as  yet  almost  wholly  untilled.  He 
returned  to  Boston  and  wrote  his  first  novel. 
Others  followed,  and  since  then  he  has  been 
kept  busy  producing  its  successors  and  writ- 
ing for  magazines. 


Mr.  Garland  at  work  in 
his  vineyard. 


THE   "  VERITIST  " 


Mr.  Garland  has  lived  wherever  he  could 
work  most  advantageously,  sometimes  in 
New  York,  sometimes  in  Boston,  sometimes 
in  Chicago,  and  sometimes  among  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  but  there  is  but  one  place  he  calls 
home.  That  is  West  Salem,  Wis.,  in  sight 
of  the  little  farm  in  the  "home"  coule. 
There  he  has  built  a  plain  house  on  a  few 
acres  of  land,  and  has  established  his  aged 
parents  in  it.  He  spends  a  large  part  of  each 
summer  with  them,  taking  great  pride  in  his 
garden,  working  out  of  doors  each  afternoon. 
He  is  especially  fond  of  his  vineyard,  and 
takes  first  prize  for  grapes  at  the  County  fair 
nearly  every  year. 

His  published  works  are  :  "  Main  Trav- 
elled Roads,"  with  an  introduction  by  W.  D. 
Howells,  "  A  Member  of  the  Third  House," 
"A  Spoil  of  Office,"  "Prairie  Folks," 
"Rose  of  Deutscher's  Coolly,"  "Prairie 
Songs,"  a  book  of  poetry,  and  a  book  of 
essays  on  art  called  "  Crumbling  Idols." 

The  story,  "  Uncle  Ethan  Ripley,"  is  se- 
lected by  permission  from  "  Prairie  Folks," 
published  in  1892  by  F.  J.  Schulte,  Chicago, 
and  later  by  Stone  &  Kimball,  New  York. 


James  Whitcomb  Riley's 
Works, 


A  Child-World. 

Neighborly  Poems. 

Sketches  in  Prose. 

Afterwhiles. 

Pipes  o'  Pan. 

Rhymes  of  Childhoodc 

The  Flying  Islands  of  the  Night. 

Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks. 

Armazindy. 

Old  Fashioned  Roses. 

An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine. 


Bowen-Merrill  Company, 


The 


Publishers, 


INDIANAPOLIS. 


KANSAS  CITY. 


Works  by  American 


Poets. 

Between  Times.  Learned. 
Cap  and  Bells.  Peck. 
In  the  Name  of  the  King.  Klingle. 
Make  Thy  Way  Mine.  Klingle. 
Madrigals  and  Catches.  Sherman. 
Old  and  New  World  Lyrics.  Scollard. 
Point  Lace  and  Diamonds.  Baker. 
Quilting  Bee,  The.  Heaton. 
Rhymes  and  Roses.  Peck. 
Rings  and  Love  Knots.  Peck. 
Sylvan  Lyrics.  Hayne. 


Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company, 
Publishers, 


NEW  YORK. 


LONDON. 


V 


3(dt>0 


THE  GETTY  CENTER 

LIBRARY 


